Going Bovine
My constant advice to all students of writing has always been to read, read, read. Time being the unyielding thing it is, I've also noticed that the more I write, the less I've been reading myself. There's something wrong with that. So I've been making a concerted effort to read more, fueled in part by a great influx recently of books I really, really want to read.
Many of them are pleasant, some of them have been remarkable (and I'll tell you about them later). But the one I read last weekend, which absolutely blew my socks off, was Libba Bray's masterful YA, Going Bovine.
It's remarkable. The voice of the young male protagonist is completely convincing--funny, angry, totally early 21st Century without being mired in contemporary teen-speak. Cameron is a little like a 21st century, less whiny, and much funnier Holden Caulfield. I found him frustrating, endearing, and so very real it was hard to believe he exists only as long as I'm reading about him. His friends include a Mexican dwarf and a talking lawn gnome who claims to be Baldur the Beautiful and hates having his picture taken. Oh, and a punk angel with torn fishnets. The plot careens between American road-movie, epic fantasy, satire, and problem novel, pretty much without stopping for breath, following an emotional logic that is utterly compelling and kept me turning pages when by all rights I should have been asleep.
And if I get any more specific than that, I'll so spoil the ride.
I laughed a lot while reading this book. And I cried, hard, when I was finishing it. Which I almost never do--just ask Ellen. And I went right to my computer (as soon as I'd blown my nose) and wrote Libba a fan letter.
Many of them are pleasant, some of them have been remarkable (and I'll tell you about them later). But the one I read last weekend, which absolutely blew my socks off, was Libba Bray's masterful YA, Going Bovine.
It's remarkable. The voice of the young male protagonist is completely convincing--funny, angry, totally early 21st Century without being mired in contemporary teen-speak. Cameron is a little like a 21st century, less whiny, and much funnier Holden Caulfield. I found him frustrating, endearing, and so very real it was hard to believe he exists only as long as I'm reading about him. His friends include a Mexican dwarf and a talking lawn gnome who claims to be Baldur the Beautiful and hates having his picture taken. Oh, and a punk angel with torn fishnets. The plot careens between American road-movie, epic fantasy, satire, and problem novel, pretty much without stopping for breath, following an emotional logic that is utterly compelling and kept me turning pages when by all rights I should have been asleep.
And if I get any more specific than that, I'll so spoil the ride.
I laughed a lot while reading this book. And I cried, hard, when I was finishing it. Which I almost never do--just ask Ellen. And I went right to my computer (as soon as I'd blown my nose) and wrote Libba a fan letter.