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Episode 75---On Vacation - Woyro talks about furry news, Bigfoot and other crazy animal stories as he prepares for Mephit Furmeet.
Woyro talks about furry news, Bigfoot and other crazy animal stories as he prepares for Mephit Furmeet.
Episode 75---On Vacation - Woyro talks about furry news, Bigfoot and other crazy animal stories as he prepares for Mephit Furmeet.
Categories: Podcasts
Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures
Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures
By Walter Moers
Translated from the German by John Brownjohn
2006 The Overlook Press
ISBN: 1-58567-725-6
Since Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures by Walter Moers is a fantasy epic, Rumo, our protagonist, is of course an orphan. In the first book of the novel, he is taken from his home by monsters and imprisoned in a tower, learns to be a warrior, and eventually escapes. In the second book, now grown, he sets out to rescue his love who was kidnapped by forces of evil. This is quite possibly the oldest fantasy plot there is—it certainly seems the most common, but this is not always a bad thing.
In his 1973 interview with documentarian Richard Schickel, Alfred Hitchcock argued that the plots of all his films were at their heart entirely predictable and formulaic—and that the reason the films themselves aren’t repetitive and dull is entirely due to characterization. It is the individuals in these films--their motivations, emotions, impulses and thoughts that make a work unique and indeed alive. Hitchcock so believed in this concept that he coined the term MacGuffin, an item or plot device that is the motivation for the characters in the film, but is of little or no importance to the audience when compared to the actions of the characters themselves.
Though the tools used to create rich and layered characters in film differ from the techniques used in the novel, the central importance of characterization in a work does not, for novels invariably tell the same sorts of tales time and again, and in this Rumo is no different. Fortunately, for all of us, Walter Moers populates Rumo with an endless variety of bizarre and interesting people, who though caught in webs of larger events, pursue their own agendas under the weight of their own emotions, neuroses, and histories. It is the richness of the world and the characters that Moers peoples it with that make Rumo rise above the great mass of fantasy novels.
Moers was a long time comic and graphic novel writer in and illustrator in Germany before he began writing novels set in the fictional continent of Zamonia. He is obviously enjoys a high degree of familiarity with the conventions of the fantasy genre, and he grabs the reader right from the start by turning one such fantasy convention slightly on its side. Like so many fantasy heroes in recent years, Rumo is an orphan (see Harry Potter, Sabriel, The Golden Compass, to name but a few). Authors do this of course so that their young protagonists can act like adults. They are free to make their own choices. One also gets the feeling that authors sometimes make their heroes orphans to do gain a hair more of the reader’s sympathy as well!
Rumo is different from most fantast orphans because his orphan-hood is not tragic, but rather a part of who his people are. Rumo is a Wolperting, half dog-half deer, and looks like a large dog with small horns on his head. Stories of the species are native to Moers’ Germany in the way that tales of jackalopes are told in the Southwestern United States. Wolpertings abandon all their children in forests soon after they are born, and the reason they do this is extraordinary. Some Wolpertings stay wild animals their whole lives, living as dumb beasts in the forest. Others, such as Rumo, make a conscious choice to become people. They decide to walk upright, talk, and eventually make their way to the city of Wolperting. In short sentience is not automatic, but rather a choice. Because of the recognition of this choice, because it had to be done se he could become a Wolperting, Rumo never feels tortured over his lost parents, and this is a rather refreshing change for a book in the fantasy genre. It is simply bad luck that no sooner than Rumo chooses to be a person he is kidnapped by cannibals, taken to their floating island, and the adventure begins in earnest.
It is Rumo’s journey to becoming a person that is the dominant thread of the first book of the novel. In this, he is guided by Volzotan Smyke, the shark-grub, the first of the many rather bizarre characters Rumo encounters over the course of his journeys. When introducing a new character Moers does something that could be very distracting—he pauses Rumo’s story and tells each new character’s story up to the point they meet Rumo—how they got there and perhaps where they want to go. He even sets out a note in the margins introducing the story each time one is told. These little asides could be detrimental to the overall novel, breaking the flow of the story. However, each character’s story is paid such beautiful and detailed attention that it becomes more than an aside. Even the minor characters have richly detailed and complicated lives and their tales provide essential information in many cases, as these characters will very often re-enter Rumo’s story later on, and their motivations in the present become clear in the light of their past histories. It’s a rather unconventional technique, but it works, in large part because Moers creates such a strong main plot arc that these diversions enrich rather than pull one away from the overall story.
Part of the joy of Rumo’s discovering what it means to be a person is that he becomes a Wolperting person, and not a human person. K.M. Hirosaki, among others, has pointed out that often in furry literature species is simply a “cosmetic veneer” playing little role in advancing either plot or characterization. Moers, though not a furry (as far as I know) makes no such mistake. Being a Wolperting is a unique experience, as is being a shark-grub, a clockwork warrior, or an undead ice yeti. The world of Wolpertings is one filled with marks of personhood—speech, literature, studies, warfare, love, even bureaucracy, but in ways that make each of these things distinctly Wolperting. Moers very effectively is able to convey how Wolpertings use their senses in ways that are radically different from humans or the other people of the continent of Zamonia. My favorite device is that young male Wolpertings follow a “silver thread” of scent when they close their eyes that leads them over hundreds of miles to their future mate.
Walter Moers writing also has a highly humorous style; comparable at times to Lewis Carroll—there are innumerable moments while reading where one is overcome by laughter. This is counterpointed by moments of cruelty and violence however, particularly in book two, where Rumo journeys deep into the underworld and the violence more than anything (but also the vocabulary level and length at 687 pages) make this not a book for children. However, its playfulness and grand adventure style makes it strongly reminiscent of those books we enjoyed as children. The translation of the book from its original German by John Brownjohn is also a strong point. I have not read the original, but the language of the English version is artful, idiomatic, and at no time feels like a translation.
Ultimately, Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures is a very good book. It falls short of being a ‘great’ book in that there are no profound ideas explored, apart from perhaps the already aforementioned choosing to be a person as a child, and it doesn’t make one think in ways that the truly great books do. That said it more than accomplishes what it sets out to do, providing a rollicking and diverting grand adventure. It is a joyful book, a celebration of being alive in a bizarre world. It was difficult to put down, and passes that perhaps greatest test of any book for me—when I finished it I had that feeling of “So now what do I do with my life?”
-Skip Ruddertail
By Walter Moers
Translated from the German by John Brownjohn
2006 The Overlook Press
ISBN: 1-58567-725-6
Since Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures by Walter Moers is a fantasy epic, Rumo, our protagonist, is of course an orphan. In the first book of the novel, he is taken from his home by monsters and imprisoned in a tower, learns to be a warrior, and eventually escapes. In the second book, now grown, he sets out to rescue his love who was kidnapped by forces of evil. This is quite possibly the oldest fantasy plot there is—it certainly seems the most common, but this is not always a bad thing.
In his 1973 interview with documentarian Richard Schickel, Alfred Hitchcock argued that the plots of all his films were at their heart entirely predictable and formulaic—and that the reason the films themselves aren’t repetitive and dull is entirely due to characterization. It is the individuals in these films--their motivations, emotions, impulses and thoughts that make a work unique and indeed alive. Hitchcock so believed in this concept that he coined the term MacGuffin, an item or plot device that is the motivation for the characters in the film, but is of little or no importance to the audience when compared to the actions of the characters themselves.
Though the tools used to create rich and layered characters in film differ from the techniques used in the novel, the central importance of characterization in a work does not, for novels invariably tell the same sorts of tales time and again, and in this Rumo is no different. Fortunately, for all of us, Walter Moers populates Rumo with an endless variety of bizarre and interesting people, who though caught in webs of larger events, pursue their own agendas under the weight of their own emotions, neuroses, and histories. It is the richness of the world and the characters that Moers peoples it with that make Rumo rise above the great mass of fantasy novels.
Moers was a long time comic and graphic novel writer in and illustrator in Germany before he began writing novels set in the fictional continent of Zamonia. He is obviously enjoys a high degree of familiarity with the conventions of the fantasy genre, and he grabs the reader right from the start by turning one such fantasy convention slightly on its side. Like so many fantasy heroes in recent years, Rumo is an orphan (see Harry Potter, Sabriel, The Golden Compass, to name but a few). Authors do this of course so that their young protagonists can act like adults. They are free to make their own choices. One also gets the feeling that authors sometimes make their heroes orphans to do gain a hair more of the reader’s sympathy as well!
Rumo is different from most fantast orphans because his orphan-hood is not tragic, but rather a part of who his people are. Rumo is a Wolperting, half dog-half deer, and looks like a large dog with small horns on his head. Stories of the species are native to Moers’ Germany in the way that tales of jackalopes are told in the Southwestern United States. Wolpertings abandon all their children in forests soon after they are born, and the reason they do this is extraordinary. Some Wolpertings stay wild animals their whole lives, living as dumb beasts in the forest. Others, such as Rumo, make a conscious choice to become people. They decide to walk upright, talk, and eventually make their way to the city of Wolperting. In short sentience is not automatic, but rather a choice. Because of the recognition of this choice, because it had to be done se he could become a Wolperting, Rumo never feels tortured over his lost parents, and this is a rather refreshing change for a book in the fantasy genre. It is simply bad luck that no sooner than Rumo chooses to be a person he is kidnapped by cannibals, taken to their floating island, and the adventure begins in earnest.
It is Rumo’s journey to becoming a person that is the dominant thread of the first book of the novel. In this, he is guided by Volzotan Smyke, the shark-grub, the first of the many rather bizarre characters Rumo encounters over the course of his journeys. When introducing a new character Moers does something that could be very distracting—he pauses Rumo’s story and tells each new character’s story up to the point they meet Rumo—how they got there and perhaps where they want to go. He even sets out a note in the margins introducing the story each time one is told. These little asides could be detrimental to the overall novel, breaking the flow of the story. However, each character’s story is paid such beautiful and detailed attention that it becomes more than an aside. Even the minor characters have richly detailed and complicated lives and their tales provide essential information in many cases, as these characters will very often re-enter Rumo’s story later on, and their motivations in the present become clear in the light of their past histories. It’s a rather unconventional technique, but it works, in large part because Moers creates such a strong main plot arc that these diversions enrich rather than pull one away from the overall story.
Part of the joy of Rumo’s discovering what it means to be a person is that he becomes a Wolperting person, and not a human person. K.M. Hirosaki, among others, has pointed out that often in furry literature species is simply a “cosmetic veneer” playing little role in advancing either plot or characterization. Moers, though not a furry (as far as I know) makes no such mistake. Being a Wolperting is a unique experience, as is being a shark-grub, a clockwork warrior, or an undead ice yeti. The world of Wolpertings is one filled with marks of personhood—speech, literature, studies, warfare, love, even bureaucracy, but in ways that make each of these things distinctly Wolperting. Moers very effectively is able to convey how Wolpertings use their senses in ways that are radically different from humans or the other people of the continent of Zamonia. My favorite device is that young male Wolpertings follow a “silver thread” of scent when they close their eyes that leads them over hundreds of miles to their future mate.
Walter Moers writing also has a highly humorous style; comparable at times to Lewis Carroll—there are innumerable moments while reading where one is overcome by laughter. This is counterpointed by moments of cruelty and violence however, particularly in book two, where Rumo journeys deep into the underworld and the violence more than anything (but also the vocabulary level and length at 687 pages) make this not a book for children. However, its playfulness and grand adventure style makes it strongly reminiscent of those books we enjoyed as children. The translation of the book from its original German by John Brownjohn is also a strong point. I have not read the original, but the language of the English version is artful, idiomatic, and at no time feels like a translation.
Ultimately, Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures is a very good book. It falls short of being a ‘great’ book in that there are no profound ideas explored, apart from perhaps the already aforementioned choosing to be a person as a child, and it doesn’t make one think in ways that the truly great books do. That said it more than accomplishes what it sets out to do, providing a rollicking and diverting grand adventure. It is a joyful book, a celebration of being alive in a bizarre world. It was difficult to put down, and passes that perhaps greatest test of any book for me—when I finished it I had that feeling of “So now what do I do with my life?”
-Skip Ruddertail
Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures
Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures
By Walter Moers
Translated from the German by John Brownjohn
2006 The Overlook Press
ISBN: 1-58567-725-6
Since Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures by Walter Moers is a fantasy epic, Rumo, our protagonist, is of course an orphan. In the first book of the novel, he is taken from his home by monsters and imprisoned in a tower, learns to be a warrior, and eventually escapes. In the second book, now grown, he sets out to rescue his love who was kidnapped by forces of evil. This is quite possibly the oldest fantasy plot there is—it certainly seems the most common, but this is not always a bad thing.
In his 1973 interview with documentarian Richard Schickel, Alfred Hitchcock argued that the plots of all his films were at their heart entirely predictable and formulaic—and that the reason the films themselves aren’t repetitive and dull is entirely due to characterization. It is the individuals in these films--their motivations, emotions, impulses and thoughts that make a work unique and indeed alive. Hitchcock so believed in this concept that he coined the term MacGuffin, an item or plot device that is the motivation for the characters in the film, but is of little or no importance to the audience when compared to the actions of the characters themselves.
Though the tools used to create rich and layered characters in film differ from the techniques used in the novel, the central importance of characterization in a work does not, for novels invariably tell the same sorts of tales time and again, and in this Rumo is no different. Fortunately, for all of us, Walter Moers populates Rumo with an endless variety of bizarre and interesting people, who though caught in webs of larger events, pursue their own agendas under the weight of their own emotions, neuroses, and histories. It is the richness of the world and the characters that Moers peoples it with that make Rumo rise above the great mass of fantasy novels.
Moers was a long time comic and graphic novel writer in and illustrator in Germany before he began writing novels set in the fictional continent of Zamonia. He is obviously enjoys a high degree of familiarity with the conventions of the fantasy genre, and he grabs the reader right from the start by turning one such fantasy convention slightly on its side. Like so many fantasy heroes in recent years, Rumo is an orphan (see Harry Potter, Sabriel, The Golden Compass, to name but a few). Authors do this of course so that their young protagonists can act like adults. They are free to make their own choices. One also gets the feeling that authors sometimes make their heroes orphans to do gain a hair more of the reader’s sympathy as well!
Rumo is different from most fantast orphans because his orphan-hood is not tragic, but rather a part of who his people are. Rumo is a Wolperting, half dog-half deer, and looks like a large dog with small horns on his head. Stories of the species are native to Moers’ Germany in the way that tales of jackalopes are told in the Southwestern United States. Wolpertings abandon all their children in forests soon after they are born, and the reason they do this is extraordinary. Some Wolpertings stay wild animals their whole lives, living as dumb beasts in the forest. Others, such as Rumo, make a conscious choice to become people. They decide to walk upright, talk, and eventually make their way to the city of Wolperting. In short sentience is not automatic, but rather a choice. Because of the recognition of this choice, because it had to be done se he could become a Wolperting, Rumo never feels tortured over his lost parents, and this is a rather refreshing change for a book in the fantasy genre. It is simply bad luck that no sooner than Rumo chooses to be a person he is kidnapped by cannibals, taken to their floating island, and the adventure begins in earnest.
It is Rumo’s journey to becoming a person that is the dominant thread of the first book of the novel. In this, he is guided by Volzotan Smyke, the shark-grub, the first of the many rather bizarre characters Rumo encounters over the course of his journeys. When introducing a new character Moers does something that could be very distracting—he pauses Rumo’s story and tells each new character’s story up to the point they meet Rumo—how they got there and perhaps where they want to go. He even sets out a note in the margins introducing the story each time one is told. These little asides could be detrimental to the overall novel, breaking the flow of the story. However, each character’s story is paid such beautiful and detailed attention that it becomes more than an aside. Even the minor characters have richly detailed and complicated lives and their tales provide essential information in many cases, as these characters will very often re-enter Rumo’s story later on, and their motivations in the present become clear in the light of their past histories. It’s a rather unconventional technique, but it works, in large part because Moers creates such a strong main plot arc that these diversions enrich rather than pull one away from the overall story.
Part of the joy of Rumo’s discovering what it means to be a person is that he becomes a Wolperting person, and not a human person. K.M. Hirosaki, among others, has pointed out that often in furry literature species is simply a “cosmetic veneer” playing little role in advancing either plot or characterization. Moers, though not a furry (as far as I know) makes no such mistake. Being a Wolperting is a unique experience, as is being a shark-grub, a clockwork warrior, or an undead ice yeti. The world of Wolpertings is one filled with marks of personhood—speech, literature, studies, warfare, love, even bureaucracy, but in ways that make each of these things distinctly Wolperting. Moers very effectively is able to convey how Wolpertings use their senses in ways that are radically different from humans or the other people of the continent of Zamonia. My favorite device is that young male Wolpertings follow a “silver thread” of scent when they close their eyes that leads them over hundreds of miles to their future mate.
Walter Moers writing also has a highly humorous style; comparable at times to Lewis Carroll—there are innumerable moments while reading where one is overcome by laughter. This is counterpointed by moments of cruelty and violence however, particularly in book two, where Rumo journeys deep into the underworld and the violence more than anything (but also the vocabulary level and length at 687 pages) make this not a book for children. However, its playfulness and grand adventure style makes it strongly reminiscent of those books we enjoyed as children. The translation of the book from its original German by John Brownjohn is also a strong point. I have not read the original, but the language of the English version is artful, idiomatic, and at no time feels like a translation.
Ultimately, Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures is a very good book. It falls short of being a ‘great’ book in that there are no profound ideas explored, apart from perhaps the already aforementioned choosing to be a person as a child, and it doesn’t make one think in ways that the truly great books do. That said it more than accomplishes what it sets out to do, providing a rollicking and diverting grand adventure. It is a joyful book, a celebration of being alive in a bizarre world. It was difficult to put down, and passes that perhaps greatest test of any book for me—when I finished it I had that feeling of “So now what do I do with my life?”
-Skip Ruddertail
By Walter Moers
Translated from the German by John Brownjohn
2006 The Overlook Press
ISBN: 1-58567-725-6
Since Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures by Walter Moers is a fantasy epic, Rumo, our protagonist, is of course an orphan. In the first book of the novel, he is taken from his home by monsters and imprisoned in a tower, learns to be a warrior, and eventually escapes. In the second book, now grown, he sets out to rescue his love who was kidnapped by forces of evil. This is quite possibly the oldest fantasy plot there is—it certainly seems the most common, but this is not always a bad thing.
In his 1973 interview with documentarian Richard Schickel, Alfred Hitchcock argued that the plots of all his films were at their heart entirely predictable and formulaic—and that the reason the films themselves aren’t repetitive and dull is entirely due to characterization. It is the individuals in these films--their motivations, emotions, impulses and thoughts that make a work unique and indeed alive. Hitchcock so believed in this concept that he coined the term MacGuffin, an item or plot device that is the motivation for the characters in the film, but is of little or no importance to the audience when compared to the actions of the characters themselves.
Though the tools used to create rich and layered characters in film differ from the techniques used in the novel, the central importance of characterization in a work does not, for novels invariably tell the same sorts of tales time and again, and in this Rumo is no different. Fortunately, for all of us, Walter Moers populates Rumo with an endless variety of bizarre and interesting people, who though caught in webs of larger events, pursue their own agendas under the weight of their own emotions, neuroses, and histories. It is the richness of the world and the characters that Moers peoples it with that make Rumo rise above the great mass of fantasy novels.
Moers was a long time comic and graphic novel writer in and illustrator in Germany before he began writing novels set in the fictional continent of Zamonia. He is obviously enjoys a high degree of familiarity with the conventions of the fantasy genre, and he grabs the reader right from the start by turning one such fantasy convention slightly on its side. Like so many fantasy heroes in recent years, Rumo is an orphan (see Harry Potter, Sabriel, The Golden Compass, to name but a few). Authors do this of course so that their young protagonists can act like adults. They are free to make their own choices. One also gets the feeling that authors sometimes make their heroes orphans to do gain a hair more of the reader’s sympathy as well!
Rumo is different from most fantast orphans because his orphan-hood is not tragic, but rather a part of who his people are. Rumo is a Wolperting, half dog-half deer, and looks like a large dog with small horns on his head. Stories of the species are native to Moers’ Germany in the way that tales of jackalopes are told in the Southwestern United States. Wolpertings abandon all their children in forests soon after they are born, and the reason they do this is extraordinary. Some Wolpertings stay wild animals their whole lives, living as dumb beasts in the forest. Others, such as Rumo, make a conscious choice to become people. They decide to walk upright, talk, and eventually make their way to the city of Wolperting. In short sentience is not automatic, but rather a choice. Because of the recognition of this choice, because it had to be done se he could become a Wolperting, Rumo never feels tortured over his lost parents, and this is a rather refreshing change for a book in the fantasy genre. It is simply bad luck that no sooner than Rumo chooses to be a person he is kidnapped by cannibals, taken to their floating island, and the adventure begins in earnest.
It is Rumo’s journey to becoming a person that is the dominant thread of the first book of the novel. In this, he is guided by Volzotan Smyke, the shark-grub, the first of the many rather bizarre characters Rumo encounters over the course of his journeys. When introducing a new character Moers does something that could be very distracting—he pauses Rumo’s story and tells each new character’s story up to the point they meet Rumo—how they got there and perhaps where they want to go. He even sets out a note in the margins introducing the story each time one is told. These little asides could be detrimental to the overall novel, breaking the flow of the story. However, each character’s story is paid such beautiful and detailed attention that it becomes more than an aside. Even the minor characters have richly detailed and complicated lives and their tales provide essential information in many cases, as these characters will very often re-enter Rumo’s story later on, and their motivations in the present become clear in the light of their past histories. It’s a rather unconventional technique, but it works, in large part because Moers creates such a strong main plot arc that these diversions enrich rather than pull one away from the overall story.
Part of the joy of Rumo’s discovering what it means to be a person is that he becomes a Wolperting person, and not a human person. K.M. Hirosaki, among others, has pointed out that often in furry literature species is simply a “cosmetic veneer” playing little role in advancing either plot or characterization. Moers, though not a furry (as far as I know) makes no such mistake. Being a Wolperting is a unique experience, as is being a shark-grub, a clockwork warrior, or an undead ice yeti. The world of Wolpertings is one filled with marks of personhood—speech, literature, studies, warfare, love, even bureaucracy, but in ways that make each of these things distinctly Wolperting. Moers very effectively is able to convey how Wolpertings use their senses in ways that are radically different from humans or the other people of the continent of Zamonia. My favorite device is that young male Wolpertings follow a “silver thread” of scent when they close their eyes that leads them over hundreds of miles to their future mate.
Walter Moers writing also has a highly humorous style; comparable at times to Lewis Carroll—there are innumerable moments while reading where one is overcome by laughter. This is counterpointed by moments of cruelty and violence however, particularly in book two, where Rumo journeys deep into the underworld and the violence more than anything (but also the vocabulary level and length at 687 pages) make this not a book for children. However, its playfulness and grand adventure style makes it strongly reminiscent of those books we enjoyed as children. The translation of the book from its original German by John Brownjohn is also a strong point. I have not read the original, but the language of the English version is artful, idiomatic, and at no time feels like a translation.
Ultimately, Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures is a very good book. It falls short of being a ‘great’ book in that there are no profound ideas explored, apart from perhaps the already aforementioned choosing to be a person as a child, and it doesn’t make one think in ways that the truly great books do. That said it more than accomplishes what it sets out to do, providing a rollicking and diverting grand adventure. It is a joyful book, a celebration of being alive in a bizarre world. It was difficult to put down, and passes that perhaps greatest test of any book for me—when I finished it I had that feeling of “So now what do I do with my life?”
-Skip Ruddertail
Episode 74---Laundry Podcast - Woyro does an update of the latest furry news while doing his laundry at the Whiter Wash Laundrymat in East Rochester, NY.
Woyro does an update of the latest furry news while doing his laundry at the Whiter Wash Laundrymat in East Rochester, NY.
Episode 74---Laundry Podcast - Woyro does an update of the latest furry news while doing his laundry at the Whiter Wash Laundrymat in East Rochester, NY.
Categories: Podcasts
Nurk, the (Somewhat) Brave Little Shrew
Though Harcourt blurbs it as a "first novel," most of us will probably know that artist and author Ursula Vernon (
ursulav) has already published several books, including multiple volumes of her comic/graphic novel Digger and Black Dogs which I take to be intended as the first volume of a series. In one sense, though, Harcourt is correct. Nurk: the Strange, Surprising Adventures of a (Somewhat) Brave Shrew (Harcourt Children's, $15.00, ISBN: 978-0152063757) is written for a juvenile audience, and is Vernon's first published venture in that particular field.
Don't dismiss the book as merely kid stuff, though. The author's droll wit and ironic sense of humor is clearly evident in a manner that will tickle the fancy of the adult reader as well. Nurkus Aurelius Alonzo Electron Maximilian Shrew (no wonder everyone shortens it to just plain "Nurk") is an orphan, having lost his parents when they were eaten by owls (shades of Mervyn Peake's Lord Sepulchrave) under unclear circumstances. He continues to live alone in his family's former home at the base of a large willow tree on the river bank, loosely watched by a great aunt who "looks in" on him once or twice a week. Though he is quite self-sufficient, he yearns to follow the example of his grandmother, Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew, whose portrait hangs in the front hall of his home. Surka was noted for her ferocious and adventurous nature, evidenced by the fact that the artist portrayed her holding a sword and a severed head in her hands. Nurk isn't quite sure he has the courage to achieve his goal, though, and certainly he has never been far from home.
When a grumpy hummingbird arrives to deliver a letter with a smeared address that appears to direct it to "...URK... UPSTREAM" Nurk assumes it is intended for himself and manages to convince the suspicious bird to hand it over. After he opens it and reads a waterstained plea for help, he realizes that it was in fact intended for none other than Surka, who has been missing for several years and presumed dead. In a quandary for what to do now that he has opened and read a letter never intended for his eyes, and that he can't deliver to the intended recipient, the young shrew seeks advice from his friend the salamander, who tells him to return the letter to the sender. This is easier said than done, since there is no return address or signature. Finally Nurk decides he has no other choice, and prepares for his journey downstream by converting an empty snail shell to a boat and provisioning it suitably, not only with food and drink, but with plenty of clean, dry socks.
Carried by the current, he soon finds himself entangled in any number of small adventures, but the real story unfolds only after he rescues a waterlogged dragonfly princess named Scatterwings. It turns out that Scatterwings herself is the letter writer, and her family needs help to rescue her brother, Prince Flicker, who is being held captive by the Grizzlemole, a blind wizard "half the size of a mountain." I'll let the prospective reader discover the outcome of the quest, the nature of the odd difficulties encountered by Nurk on his way, and the wry witticisms introduced by Vernon as she relates the tale. Naturally, the author has provided the jacket art and internal black and white drawings herself, and they complement the story very well.
I believe this book is deliberately left open for sequels in which we may get to meet Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew as well, and I look forward to the experience. The fact that Nurk reaches the end of his adventures without using a sword or severing any heads does not reflect badly upon him, and I suspect that his grandmother Surka will eventually be convinced of that too (though perhaps not at first.) While Surka may well resemble the ferocious shrew clans of Brian Jacques' Redwall stories, Nurk has started out more in the character of Kenneth Grahame's Mole, a mild-mannered creature who follows a yearning in his heart and gets much more than he thought he was seeking. I recommend this book to any reader who appreciates small creatures who can get into terrifying situations and yet see the ironic humor of their self-induced plights.
Rating: 4 of 5 possible apples
ursulav) has already published several books, including multiple volumes of her comic/graphic novel Digger and Black Dogs which I take to be intended as the first volume of a series. In one sense, though, Harcourt is correct. Nurk: the Strange, Surprising Adventures of a (Somewhat) Brave Shrew (Harcourt Children's, $15.00, ISBN: 978-0152063757) is written for a juvenile audience, and is Vernon's first published venture in that particular field.When a grumpy hummingbird arrives to deliver a letter with a smeared address that appears to direct it to "...URK... UPSTREAM" Nurk assumes it is intended for himself and manages to convince the suspicious bird to hand it over. After he opens it and reads a waterstained plea for help, he realizes that it was in fact intended for none other than Surka, who has been missing for several years and presumed dead. In a quandary for what to do now that he has opened and read a letter never intended for his eyes, and that he can't deliver to the intended recipient, the young shrew seeks advice from his friend the salamander, who tells him to return the letter to the sender. This is easier said than done, since there is no return address or signature. Finally Nurk decides he has no other choice, and prepares for his journey downstream by converting an empty snail shell to a boat and provisioning it suitably, not only with food and drink, but with plenty of clean, dry socks.
Carried by the current, he soon finds himself entangled in any number of small adventures, but the real story unfolds only after he rescues a waterlogged dragonfly princess named Scatterwings. It turns out that Scatterwings herself is the letter writer, and her family needs help to rescue her brother, Prince Flicker, who is being held captive by the Grizzlemole, a blind wizard "half the size of a mountain." I'll let the prospective reader discover the outcome of the quest, the nature of the odd difficulties encountered by Nurk on his way, and the wry witticisms introduced by Vernon as she relates the tale. Naturally, the author has provided the jacket art and internal black and white drawings herself, and they complement the story very well.
I believe this book is deliberately left open for sequels in which we may get to meet Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew as well, and I look forward to the experience. The fact that Nurk reaches the end of his adventures without using a sword or severing any heads does not reflect badly upon him, and I suspect that his grandmother Surka will eventually be convinced of that too (though perhaps not at first.) While Surka may well resemble the ferocious shrew clans of Brian Jacques' Redwall stories, Nurk has started out more in the character of Kenneth Grahame's Mole, a mild-mannered creature who follows a yearning in his heart and gets much more than he thought he was seeking. I recommend this book to any reader who appreciates small creatures who can get into terrifying situations and yet see the ironic humor of their self-induced plights.
Rating: 4 of 5 possible apples
Nurk, the (Somewhat) Brave Little Shrew
Though Harcourt blurbs it as a "first novel," most of us will probably know that artist and author Ursula Vernon (
ursulav) has already published several books, including multiple volumes of her comic/graphic novel Digger and Black Dogs which I take to be intended as the first volume of a series. In one sense, though, Harcourt is correct. Nurk: the Strange, Surprising Adventures of a (Somewhat) Brave Shrew (Harcourt Children's, $15.00, ISBN: 978-0152063757) is written for a juvenile audience, and is Vernon's first published venture in that particular field.
Don't dismiss the book as merely kid stuff, though. The author's droll wit and ironic sense of humor is clearly evident in a manner that will tickle the fancy of the adult reader as well. Nurkus Aurelius Alonzo Electron Maximilian Shrew (no wonder everyone shortens it to just plain "Nurk") is an orphan, having lost his parents when they were eaten by owls (shades of Mervyn Peake's Lord Sepulchrave) under unclear circumstances. He continues to live alone in his family's former home at the base of a large willow tree on the river bank, loosely watched by a great aunt who "looks in" on him once or twice a week. Though he is quite self-sufficient, he yearns to follow the example of his grandmother, Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew, whose portrait hangs in the front hall of his home. Surka was noted for her ferocious and adventurous nature, evidenced by the fact that the artist portrayed her holding a sword and a severed head in her hands. Nurk isn't quite sure he has the courage to achieve his goal, though, and certainly he has never been far from home.
When a grumpy hummingbird arrives to deliver a letter with a smeared address that appears to direct it to "...URK... UPSTREAM" Nurk assumes it is intended for himself and manages to convince the suspicious bird to hand it over. After he opens it and reads a waterstained plea for help, he realizes that it was in fact intended for none other than Surka, who has been missing for several years and presumed dead. In a quandary for what to do now that he has opened and read a letter never intended for his eyes, and that he can't deliver to the intended recipient, the young shrew seeks advice from his friend the salamander, who tells him to return the letter to the sender. This is easier said than done, since there is no return address or signature. Finally Nurk decides he has no other choice, and prepares for his journey downstream by converting an empty snail shell to a boat and provisioning it suitably, not only with food and drink, but with plenty of clean, dry socks.
Carried by the current, he soon finds himself entangled in any number of small adventures, but the real story unfolds only after he rescues a waterlogged dragonfly princess named Scatterwings. It turns out that Scatterwings herself is the letter writer, and her family needs help to rescue her brother, Prince Flicker, who is being held captive by the Grizzlemole, a blind wizard "half the size of a mountain." I'll let the prospective reader discover the outcome of the quest, the nature of the odd difficulties encountered by Nurk on his way, and the wry witticisms introduced by Vernon as she relates the tale. Naturally, the author has provided the jacket art and internal black and white drawings herself, and they complement the story very well.
I believe this book is deliberately left open for sequels in which we may get to meet Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew as well, and I look forward to the experience. The fact that Nurk reaches the end of his adventures without using a sword or severing any heads does not reflect badly upon him, and I suspect that his grandmother Surka will eventually be convinced of that too (though perhaps not at first.) While Surka may well resemble the ferocious shrew clans of Brian Jacques' Redwall stories, Nurk has started out more in the character of Kenneth Grahame's Mole, a mild-mannered creature who follows a yearning in his heart and gets much more than he thought he was seeking. I recommend this book to any reader who appreciates small creatures who can get into terrifying situations and yet see the ironic humor of their self-induced plights.
Rating: 4 of 5 possible apples
ursulav) has already published several books, including multiple volumes of her comic/graphic novel Digger and Black Dogs which I take to be intended as the first volume of a series. In one sense, though, Harcourt is correct. Nurk: the Strange, Surprising Adventures of a (Somewhat) Brave Shrew (Harcourt Children's, $15.00, ISBN: 978-0152063757) is written for a juvenile audience, and is Vernon's first published venture in that particular field.Don't dismiss the book as merely kid stuff, though. The author's droll wit and ironic sense of humor is clearly evident in a manner that will tickle the fancy of the adult reader as well. Nurkus Aurelius Alonzo Electron Maximilian Shrew (no wonder everyone shortens it to just plain "Nurk") is an orphan, having lost his parents when they were eaten by owls (shades of Mervyn Peake's Lord Sepulchrave) under unclear circumstances. He continues to live alone in his family's former home at the base of a large willow tree on the river bank, loosely watched by a great aunt who "looks in" on him once or twice a week. Though he is quite self-sufficient, he yearns to follow the example of his grandmother, Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew, whose portrait hangs in the front hall of his home. Surka was noted for her ferocious and adventurous nature, evidenced by the fact that the artist portrayed her holding a sword and a severed head in her hands. Nurk isn't quite sure he has the courage to achieve his goal, though, and certainly he has never been far from home.When a grumpy hummingbird arrives to deliver a letter with a smeared address that appears to direct it to "...URK... UPSTREAM" Nurk assumes it is intended for himself and manages to convince the suspicious bird to hand it over. After he opens it and reads a waterstained plea for help, he realizes that it was in fact intended for none other than Surka, who has been missing for several years and presumed dead. In a quandary for what to do now that he has opened and read a letter never intended for his eyes, and that he can't deliver to the intended recipient, the young shrew seeks advice from his friend the salamander, who tells him to return the letter to the sender. This is easier said than done, since there is no return address or signature. Finally Nurk decides he has no other choice, and prepares for his journey downstream by converting an empty snail shell to a boat and provisioning it suitably, not only with food and drink, but with plenty of clean, dry socks.
Carried by the current, he soon finds himself entangled in any number of small adventures, but the real story unfolds only after he rescues a waterlogged dragonfly princess named Scatterwings. It turns out that Scatterwings herself is the letter writer, and her family needs help to rescue her brother, Prince Flicker, who is being held captive by the Grizzlemole, a blind wizard "half the size of a mountain." I'll let the prospective reader discover the outcome of the quest, the nature of the odd difficulties encountered by Nurk on his way, and the wry witticisms introduced by Vernon as she relates the tale. Naturally, the author has provided the jacket art and internal black and white drawings herself, and they complement the story very well.
I believe this book is deliberately left open for sequels in which we may get to meet Surka Aurelia Maxine Shrew as well, and I look forward to the experience. The fact that Nurk reaches the end of his adventures without using a sword or severing any heads does not reflect badly upon him, and I suspect that his grandmother Surka will eventually be convinced of that too (though perhaps not at first.) While Surka may well resemble the ferocious shrew clans of Brian Jacques' Redwall stories, Nurk has started out more in the character of Kenneth Grahame's Mole, a mild-mannered creature who follows a yearning in his heart and gets much more than he thought he was seeking. I recommend this book to any reader who appreciates small creatures who can get into terrifying situations and yet see the ironic humor of their self-induced plights.
Rating: 4 of 5 possible apples
Episode 73---Con News & Batman - Woyro runs down some furry news, cons for next month, and a review of THE DARK KNIGHT.
Woyro runs down some furry news, cons for next month, and a review of THE DARK KNIGHT.
Episode 73---Con News & Batman - Woyro runs down some furry news, cons for next month, and a review of THE DARK KNIGHT.
Categories: Podcasts
Episode 72--News Updates - Woyro talks about news in the furry community, his trip to an sf con in Toronto, and plays a little interview with the guys from Umgotts.
Woyro talks about news in the furry community, his trip to an sf con in Toronto, and plays a little interview with the guys from Umgotts.
Episode 72--News Updates - Woyro talks about news in the furry community, his trip to an sf con in Toronto, and plays a little interview with the guys from Umgotts.
Categories: Podcasts
Heathen City #1
Bullets for breakfast. Death for dinner, and a light salad for lunch.
Heathen city seeks to raise the bar for anthropomorphic publications, but does it deliver?
Heathen City, by Alex Vance, could be considered a dark and gritty crime story featuring anti-heroes, and a generous helping of gay sex. While the intention of raising the narrative bar is commendable, the problem here is that someone has gotten caught up in the very trendy idea that high quality means dark, gritty, depressing and violent. It's the same symptoms that you find in most science fiction productions nowadays-- I'll be very frank: The whole dystopic angle? Only works if you've got a darned good story to tell, otherwise it's just a gimmick amateur writers pull to say "See how mature I am? I am writing unhappiness!" It's easier to pull of an unbalanced and mildly entertaining story set in a dystopic setting because the environment already comes with package-deal obstacles common to the genre.
The plot as it stands, trying to cut out any spoilers: Owen is a hustler who decides to hang his... nevermind, he's decided to go out of business, quit the life of prostitution and stay out of trouble. Trouble soon finds him, however, and in the blink of an eye he is dragging his new beau, Ruy, with him while escaping from people who don't exactly want to throw a tea party. They seek the help of Malloy (a Seminarian-turned-boxer-turned-drug dealer), with whom Owen shared a past (and probably a toothbrush), and then they're off on the road. I've heard Shanghai is lovely this time of year, provided you watch that left turn at Albuquerque.
Knuckles for Snacks.
What we've got here, in the core, is an emulation of Quentin Tarantino, and it doesn't really work because only Tarantino is Tarantino (whom I usually find overrated anyways). It's very easy to pull all sorts of tricks with a dystopia, But quite frankly? I'm tired of the prevalent attitude that glorifying the gutter is "masterful storytelling." We have a plot that isn't very well integrated, rather poor characterization, and some very awkward soliloquies that feel out of place- brevity is the soul of wit (as Polonius has the affrontery to observe, after talking your ear off for ten minutes), not excessive verbosity. This creates a certain stiffness about the delivery, and it can be rather awkward . The plot in itself is diaphanous enough that it is hardly there- it is not so much of a plot as things that keep happening, so we have more of a Naturalistic* approach over a Romantic** one.
One of the title's advertised features is "morally ambiguous characters," and on that I do have an opinion: There's quite a bit of 'moral ambiguity' in Furry as it is- it's the whole 'non-judgmental' approach (through which a great deal of people get away with all sorts of things, from pirating to swindling others, with only very few saying anything about it). A novel approach, instead, would be writing characters who aren't morally ambiguous- granted, it isn't cool being morally unambiguous nowadays, but writers don't write to be cool, just to be good---- right?
Concerning the overall plot and the choice of background, the author replied to a review with the following: "I love romance, though perhaps HC #1 might lead you to think otherwise. I just think it's... rather precious, and use it sparingly, so it can be all the more powerful for its rarity. I find it too serious a subject to treat lightly, or to visit too often. Sex and arrogance and corruption and violence, however, are such crude metals that they don't lose their shine, and make a fine, fine background for a sparkle of romance, when the time's right for it." {link}
While this was a very enlightening post, as it allowed me to understand what the author sought to do, I am not entirely sure that this works. When your starting place is the gutter and your whole focus is looking down to glorify the gutter instead of looking up... well, what you end up with is a romance of the gutter, which happens between characters that belong there- and for whom you really don't care that much anyways (unless you belong in the gutter, too). Let me put it this way (and you'll excuse me if I get a little Rabelaisian): When you coat a beautiful mink stole with excrement, you don't have a beautiful mink stole anymore. You have sh_t on a dead rodent. A trip to the gutter, if necessary at all in a storyline, should have a purpose further than to serve as a shock device.
Pain for Teatime.
Then, we have the anti-heroes. I'm not really in for the whole anti-hero worship. The infatuation with that particular archetype tends to be very juvenile. The core of the anti hero is that he does not have any real identity and determination, and are usually shaped and forced by the events that occur to him rather than the other way around: The anti-hero doesn't do what he knows is right because of his determination, but rather because circumstances (mysteriously) conspire against him to the point where he has no apparent choice but to do the right thing. Anti heroes are malleable and amorphous, and usually have their appeal during adolescence- that strange period when you're trying to figure out who you are (if you don't know already) and generally rebel against just about everything. After that, though, clinging to admiration for anti-heroes is rather telling about a person--- after all, we admire what we value.***
There are some very good furry storytellers out there who are publishing their books and comics from whom, I think, one could learn a lesson-- Kyell Gold writes some nice stuff, both erotica and non-erotica alike (although his erotica is more of a romantic nature than your usual share, and it never feels like the book was written around the sex... it seldom, if ever, feels forced or out of place, and there's usually a reason for it), and I am quite fond of "Volle". Vince Suzukawa, the creator of The Class Menagerie, is doing quite well with his new comic, I.S.O. which, although set in territory that some might say is over-used (Coming out story set in a college environment), it isn't Associated Student Bodies: Cody's tale of coming to grips with sexuality is very well told, with good characterization, and the whole concoction is very fresh, actually: no gratuitous sex (though plenty of shirtlessness, which doesn't detracts from anything ;) ) and the comic is very well balanced... balance is what ultimately can make a story truly memorable or a forgettable, uneven venture.
Does this plot make me look fat?
Heathen City isn't that balanced, I am afraid. The art is beautiful, but plot and delivery are weak, and the focus -as I said before- is constantly downwards. As a graphical endeavor, it deserves great kudos, but as a story I am afraid the first installment doesn't impress--- So far, the series gives me the impression of being that teenager consisting of twenty pounds of makeup and one pound of leather and lace, smoking cigarettes through his multi-pierced lips and trying to shock you with the unusual shape of his haircut. It's trying to be so edgy that it cuts itself, and bleeds all over the place. Number two may be different, I'm certainly hoping so, but I am not too optimistic. The author admitted that Heathen City was an erotic work because eroticism in furry publications tends to sell twice as much as non-erotic work. Taking that into mind, I think the story tends to suffer because of the 'quota' element that needs to be met.
If you want something lovely to look at, go ahead and buy it. But if you come for the story, you might have better look looking somewhere else, or ride it out and hope the next issues become more balanced.
But that's just my two cents, after all.
* The naturalist approach concerns itself with the individual as a victim of circumstances, shaped and inconvenienced by them, without input upon his fate. It is usually Deterministic in approach, and its characters are usually 'shades of grey' without many (or any) convictions. The basic premise is one of helplessness, and the events depicted in its plotlines tend to be more accidental narrative than purposeful argument.
** The Romanticist approach concerns itself with the individual as the master of his own destiny, able to take events as they come and react according to his desires and goals, and to confront adversity without being consumed by it. It is Non-deterministic and its plot is driven by the character's decisions, not by their helplessness.
*** A sidenote: People often confuse the term 'anti-hero' for 'non-traditional hero,' where 'hero' is defined very narrowly by convention as someone who is physically and mentally strong as well as unwavering, etcetera, basically a Superman. As an example, Frodo the Hobbit is not an anti-hero, he's quite a hero, in fact: he is given the choice, and he takes the burden of the Ring by choice during the White Council. After his journey to Lorien, it has become very clear to him what a world with Sauron triumphant would be like, and he would rather risk the journey to Moria and certain death than live in a world like that- despite the fact that he is not a great fighter, nor strong and formidable, nor has any great power that sets him apart. Nevertheless, it is his choice, and his commitment to that choice [with understandable moments of weakness under his burden] that makes him a hero.
Heathen city seeks to raise the bar for anthropomorphic publications, but does it deliver?
Heathen City, by Alex Vance, could be considered a dark and gritty crime story featuring anti-heroes, and a generous helping of gay sex. While the intention of raising the narrative bar is commendable, the problem here is that someone has gotten caught up in the very trendy idea that high quality means dark, gritty, depressing and violent. It's the same symptoms that you find in most science fiction productions nowadays-- I'll be very frank: The whole dystopic angle? Only works if you've got a darned good story to tell, otherwise it's just a gimmick amateur writers pull to say "See how mature I am? I am writing unhappiness!" It's easier to pull of an unbalanced and mildly entertaining story set in a dystopic setting because the environment already comes with package-deal obstacles common to the genre.
The plot as it stands, trying to cut out any spoilers: Owen is a hustler who decides to hang his... nevermind, he's decided to go out of business, quit the life of prostitution and stay out of trouble. Trouble soon finds him, however, and in the blink of an eye he is dragging his new beau, Ruy, with him while escaping from people who don't exactly want to throw a tea party. They seek the help of Malloy (a Seminarian-turned-boxer-turned-drug dealer), with whom Owen shared a past (and probably a toothbrush), and then they're off on the road. I've heard Shanghai is lovely this time of year, provided you watch that left turn at Albuquerque.
Knuckles for Snacks.
What we've got here, in the core, is an emulation of Quentin Tarantino, and it doesn't really work because only Tarantino is Tarantino (whom I usually find overrated anyways). It's very easy to pull all sorts of tricks with a dystopia, But quite frankly? I'm tired of the prevalent attitude that glorifying the gutter is "masterful storytelling." We have a plot that isn't very well integrated, rather poor characterization, and some very awkward soliloquies that feel out of place- brevity is the soul of wit (as Polonius has the affrontery to observe, after talking your ear off for ten minutes), not excessive verbosity. This creates a certain stiffness about the delivery, and it can be rather awkward . The plot in itself is diaphanous enough that it is hardly there- it is not so much of a plot as things that keep happening, so we have more of a Naturalistic* approach over a Romantic** one.
One of the title's advertised features is "morally ambiguous characters," and on that I do have an opinion: There's quite a bit of 'moral ambiguity' in Furry as it is- it's the whole 'non-judgmental' approach (through which a great deal of people get away with all sorts of things, from pirating to swindling others, with only very few saying anything about it). A novel approach, instead, would be writing characters who aren't morally ambiguous- granted, it isn't cool being morally unambiguous nowadays, but writers don't write to be cool, just to be good---- right?
Concerning the overall plot and the choice of background, the author replied to a review with the following: "I love romance, though perhaps HC #1 might lead you to think otherwise. I just think it's... rather precious, and use it sparingly, so it can be all the more powerful for its rarity. I find it too serious a subject to treat lightly, or to visit too often. Sex and arrogance and corruption and violence, however, are such crude metals that they don't lose their shine, and make a fine, fine background for a sparkle of romance, when the time's right for it." {link}
While this was a very enlightening post, as it allowed me to understand what the author sought to do, I am not entirely sure that this works. When your starting place is the gutter and your whole focus is looking down to glorify the gutter instead of looking up... well, what you end up with is a romance of the gutter, which happens between characters that belong there- and for whom you really don't care that much anyways (unless you belong in the gutter, too). Let me put it this way (and you'll excuse me if I get a little Rabelaisian): When you coat a beautiful mink stole with excrement, you don't have a beautiful mink stole anymore. You have sh_t on a dead rodent. A trip to the gutter, if necessary at all in a storyline, should have a purpose further than to serve as a shock device.
Pain for Teatime.
Then, we have the anti-heroes. I'm not really in for the whole anti-hero worship. The infatuation with that particular archetype tends to be very juvenile. The core of the anti hero is that he does not have any real identity and determination, and are usually shaped and forced by the events that occur to him rather than the other way around: The anti-hero doesn't do what he knows is right because of his determination, but rather because circumstances (mysteriously) conspire against him to the point where he has no apparent choice but to do the right thing. Anti heroes are malleable and amorphous, and usually have their appeal during adolescence- that strange period when you're trying to figure out who you are (if you don't know already) and generally rebel against just about everything. After that, though, clinging to admiration for anti-heroes is rather telling about a person--- after all, we admire what we value.***
There are some very good furry storytellers out there who are publishing their books and comics from whom, I think, one could learn a lesson-- Kyell Gold writes some nice stuff, both erotica and non-erotica alike (although his erotica is more of a romantic nature than your usual share, and it never feels like the book was written around the sex... it seldom, if ever, feels forced or out of place, and there's usually a reason for it), and I am quite fond of "Volle". Vince Suzukawa, the creator of The Class Menagerie, is doing quite well with his new comic, I.S.O. which, although set in territory that some might say is over-used (Coming out story set in a college environment), it isn't Associated Student Bodies: Cody's tale of coming to grips with sexuality is very well told, with good characterization, and the whole concoction is very fresh, actually: no gratuitous sex (though plenty of shirtlessness, which doesn't detracts from anything ;) ) and the comic is very well balanced... balance is what ultimately can make a story truly memorable or a forgettable, uneven venture.
Does this plot make me look fat?
Heathen City isn't that balanced, I am afraid. The art is beautiful, but plot and delivery are weak, and the focus -as I said before- is constantly downwards. As a graphical endeavor, it deserves great kudos, but as a story I am afraid the first installment doesn't impress--- So far, the series gives me the impression of being that teenager consisting of twenty pounds of makeup and one pound of leather and lace, smoking cigarettes through his multi-pierced lips and trying to shock you with the unusual shape of his haircut. It's trying to be so edgy that it cuts itself, and bleeds all over the place. Number two may be different, I'm certainly hoping so, but I am not too optimistic. The author admitted that Heathen City was an erotic work because eroticism in furry publications tends to sell twice as much as non-erotic work. Taking that into mind, I think the story tends to suffer because of the 'quota' element that needs to be met.
If you want something lovely to look at, go ahead and buy it. But if you come for the story, you might have better look looking somewhere else, or ride it out and hope the next issues become more balanced.
But that's just my two cents, after all.
* The naturalist approach concerns itself with the individual as a victim of circumstances, shaped and inconvenienced by them, without input upon his fate. It is usually Deterministic in approach, and its characters are usually 'shades of grey' without many (or any) convictions. The basic premise is one of helplessness, and the events depicted in its plotlines tend to be more accidental narrative than purposeful argument.
** The Romanticist approach concerns itself with the individual as the master of his own destiny, able to take events as they come and react according to his desires and goals, and to confront adversity without being consumed by it. It is Non-deterministic and its plot is driven by the character's decisions, not by their helplessness.
*** A sidenote: People often confuse the term 'anti-hero' for 'non-traditional hero,' where 'hero' is defined very narrowly by convention as someone who is physically and mentally strong as well as unwavering, etcetera, basically a Superman. As an example, Frodo the Hobbit is not an anti-hero, he's quite a hero, in fact: he is given the choice, and he takes the burden of the Ring by choice during the White Council. After his journey to Lorien, it has become very clear to him what a world with Sauron triumphant would be like, and he would rather risk the journey to Moria and certain death than live in a world like that- despite the fact that he is not a great fighter, nor strong and formidable, nor has any great power that sets him apart. Nevertheless, it is his choice, and his commitment to that choice [with understandable moments of weakness under his burden] that makes him a hero.
Heathen City #1
Bullets for breakfast. Death for dinner, and a light salad for lunch.
Heathen city seeks to raise the bar for anthropomorphic publications, but does it deliver?
Heathen City, by Alex Vance, could be considered a dark and gritty crime story featuring anti-heroes, and a generous helping of gay sex. While the intention of raising the narrative bar is commendable, the problem here is that someone has gotten caught up in the very trendy idea that high quality means dark, gritty, depressing and violent. It's the same symptoms that you find in most science fiction productions nowadays-- I'll be very frank: The whole dystopic angle? Only works if you've got a darned good story to tell, otherwise it's just a gimmick amateur writers pull to say "See how mature I am? I am writing unhappiness!" It's easier to pull of an unbalanced and mildly entertaining story set in a dystopic setting because the environment already comes with package-deal obstacles common to the genre.
The plot as it stands, trying to cut out any spoilers: Owen is a hustler who decides to hang his... nevermind, he's decided to go out of business, quit the life of prostitution and stay out of trouble. Trouble soon finds him, however, and in the blink of an eye he is dragging his new beau, Ruy, with him while escaping from people who don't exactly want to throw a tea party. They seek the help of Malloy (a Seminarian-turned-boxer-turned-drug dealer), with whom Owen shared a past (and probably a toothbrush), and then they're off on the road. I've heard Shanghai is lovely this time of year, provided you watch that left turn at Albuquerque.
Knuckles for Snacks.
What we've got here, in the core, is an emulation of Quentin Tarantino, and it doesn't really work because only Tarantino is Tarantino (whom I usually find overrated anyways). It's very easy to pull all sorts of tricks with a dystopia, But quite frankly? I'm tired of the prevalent attitude that glorifying the gutter is "masterful storytelling." We have a plot that isn't very well integrated, rather poor characterization, and some very awkward soliloquies that feel out of place- brevity is the soul of wit (as Polonius has the affrontery to observe, after talking your ear off for ten minutes), not excessive verbosity. This creates a certain stiffness about the delivery, and it can be rather awkward . The plot in itself is diaphanous enough that it is hardly there- it is not so much of a plot as things that keep happening, so we have more of a Naturalistic* approach over a Romantic** one.
One of the title's advertised features is "morally ambiguous characters," and on that I do have an opinion: There's quite a bit of 'moral ambiguity' in Furry as it is- it's the whole 'non-judgmental' approach (through which a great deal of people get away with all sorts of things, from pirating to swindling others, with only very few saying anything about it). A novel approach, instead, would be writing characters who aren't morally ambiguous- granted, it isn't cool being morally unambiguous nowadays, but writers don't write to be cool, just to be good---- right?
Concerning the overall plot and the choice of background, the author replied to a review with the following: "I love romance, though perhaps HC #1 might lead you to think otherwise. I just think it's... rather precious, and use it sparingly, so it can be all the more powerful for its rarity. I find it too serious a subject to treat lightly, or to visit too often. Sex and arrogance and corruption and violence, however, are such crude metals that they don't lose their shine, and make a fine, fine background for a sparkle of romance, when the time's right for it." {link}
While this was a very enlightening post, as it allowed me to understand what the author sought to do, I am not entirely sure that this works. When your starting place is the gutter and your whole focus is looking down to glorify the gutter instead of looking up... well, what you end up with is a romance of the gutter, which happens between characters that belong there- and for whom you really don't care that much anyways (unless you belong in the gutter, too). Let me put it this way (and you'll excuse me if I get a little Rabelaisian): When you coat a beautiful mink stole with excrement, you don't have a beautiful mink stole anymore. You have sh_t on a dead rodent. A trip to the gutter, if necessary at all in a storyline, should have a purpose further than to serve as a shock device.
Pain for Teatime.
Then, we have the anti-heroes. I'm not really in for the whole anti-hero worship. The infatuation with that particular archetype tends to be very juvenile. The core of the anti hero is that he does not have any real identity and determination, and are usually shaped and forced by the events that occur to him rather than the other way around: The anti-hero doesn't do what he knows is right because of his determination, but rather because circumstances (mysteriously) conspire against him to the point where he has no apparent choice but to do the right thing. Anti heroes are malleable and amorphous, and usually have their appeal during adolescence- that strange period when you're trying to figure out who you are (if you don't know already) and generally rebel against just about everything. After that, though, clinging to admiration for anti-heroes is rather telling about a person--- after all, we admire what we value.***
There are some very good furry storytellers out there who are publishing their books and comics from whom, I think, one could learn a lesson-- Kyell Gold writes some nice stuff, both erotica and non-erotica alike (although his erotica is more of a romantic nature than your usual share, and it never feels like the book was written around the sex... it seldom, if ever, feels forced or out of place, and there's usually a reason for it), and I am quite fond of "Volle". Vince Suzukawa, the creator of The Class Menagerie, is doing quite well with his new comic, I.S.O. which, although set in territory that some might say is over-used (Coming out story set in a college environment), it isn't Associated Student Bodies: Cody's tale of coming to grips with sexuality is very well told, with good characterization, and the whole concoction is very fresh, actually: no gratuitous sex (though plenty of shirtlessness, which doesn't detracts from anything ;) ) and the comic is very well balanced... balance is what ultimately can make a story truly memorable or a forgettable, uneven venture.
Does this plot make me look fat?
Heathen City isn't that balanced, I am afraid. The art is beautiful, but plot and delivery are weak, and the focus -as I said before- is constantly downwards. As a graphical endeavor, it deserves great kudos, but as a story I am afraid the first installment doesn't impress--- So far, the series gives me the impression of being that teenager consisting of twenty pounds of makeup and one pound of leather and lace, smoking cigarettes through his multi-pierced lips and trying to shock you with the unusual shape of his haircut. It's trying to be so edgy that it cuts itself, and bleeds all over the place. Number two may be different, I'm certainly hoping so, but I am not too optimistic. The author admitted that Heathen City was an erotic work because eroticism in furry publications tends to sell twice as much as non-erotic work. Taking that into mind, I think the story tends to suffer because of the 'quota' element that needs to be met.
If you want something lovely to look at, go ahead and buy it. But if you come for the story, you might have better look looking somewhere else, or ride it out and hope the next issues become more balanced.
But that's just my two cents, after all.
* The naturalist approach concerns itself with the individual as a victim of circumstances, shaped and inconvenienced by them, without input upon his fate. It is usually Deterministic in approach, and its characters are usually 'shades of grey' without many (or any) convictions. The basic premise is one of helplessness, and the events depicted in its plotlines tend to be more accidental narrative than purposeful argument.
** The Romanticist approach concerns itself with the individual as the master of his own destiny, able to take events as they come and react according to his desires and goals, and to confront adversity without being consumed by it. It is Non-deterministic and its plot is driven by the character's decisions, not by their helplessness.
*** A sidenote: People often confuse the term 'anti-hero' for 'non-traditional hero,' where 'hero' is defined very narrowly by convention as someone who is physically and mentally strong as well as unwavering, etcetera, basically a Superman. As an example, Frodo the Hobbit is not an anti-hero, he's quite a hero, in fact: he is given the choice, and he takes the burden of the Ring by choice during the White Council. After his journey to Lorien, it has become very clear to him what a world with Sauron triumphant would be like, and he would rather risk the journey to Moria and certain death than live in a world like that- despite the fact that he is not a great fighter, nor strong and formidable, nor has any great power that sets him apart. Nevertheless, it is his choice, and his commitment to that choice [with understandable moments of weakness under his burden] that makes him a hero.
Heathen city seeks to raise the bar for anthropomorphic publications, but does it deliver?
Heathen City, by Alex Vance, could be considered a dark and gritty crime story featuring anti-heroes, and a generous helping of gay sex. While the intention of raising the narrative bar is commendable, the problem here is that someone has gotten caught up in the very trendy idea that high quality means dark, gritty, depressing and violent. It's the same symptoms that you find in most science fiction productions nowadays-- I'll be very frank: The whole dystopic angle? Only works if you've got a darned good story to tell, otherwise it's just a gimmick amateur writers pull to say "See how mature I am? I am writing unhappiness!" It's easier to pull of an unbalanced and mildly entertaining story set in a dystopic setting because the environment already comes with package-deal obstacles common to the genre.
The plot as it stands, trying to cut out any spoilers: Owen is a hustler who decides to hang his... nevermind, he's decided to go out of business, quit the life of prostitution and stay out of trouble. Trouble soon finds him, however, and in the blink of an eye he is dragging his new beau, Ruy, with him while escaping from people who don't exactly want to throw a tea party. They seek the help of Malloy (a Seminarian-turned-boxer-turned-drug dealer), with whom Owen shared a past (and probably a toothbrush), and then they're off on the road. I've heard Shanghai is lovely this time of year, provided you watch that left turn at Albuquerque.
Knuckles for Snacks.
What we've got here, in the core, is an emulation of Quentin Tarantino, and it doesn't really work because only Tarantino is Tarantino (whom I usually find overrated anyways). It's very easy to pull all sorts of tricks with a dystopia, But quite frankly? I'm tired of the prevalent attitude that glorifying the gutter is "masterful storytelling." We have a plot that isn't very well integrated, rather poor characterization, and some very awkward soliloquies that feel out of place- brevity is the soul of wit (as Polonius has the affrontery to observe, after talking your ear off for ten minutes), not excessive verbosity. This creates a certain stiffness about the delivery, and it can be rather awkward . The plot in itself is diaphanous enough that it is hardly there- it is not so much of a plot as things that keep happening, so we have more of a Naturalistic* approach over a Romantic** one.
One of the title's advertised features is "morally ambiguous characters," and on that I do have an opinion: There's quite a bit of 'moral ambiguity' in Furry as it is- it's the whole 'non-judgmental' approach (through which a great deal of people get away with all sorts of things, from pirating to swindling others, with only very few saying anything about it). A novel approach, instead, would be writing characters who aren't morally ambiguous- granted, it isn't cool being morally unambiguous nowadays, but writers don't write to be cool, just to be good---- right?
Concerning the overall plot and the choice of background, the author replied to a review with the following: "I love romance, though perhaps HC #1 might lead you to think otherwise. I just think it's... rather precious, and use it sparingly, so it can be all the more powerful for its rarity. I find it too serious a subject to treat lightly, or to visit too often. Sex and arrogance and corruption and violence, however, are such crude metals that they don't lose their shine, and make a fine, fine background for a sparkle of romance, when the time's right for it." {link}
While this was a very enlightening post, as it allowed me to understand what the author sought to do, I am not entirely sure that this works. When your starting place is the gutter and your whole focus is looking down to glorify the gutter instead of looking up... well, what you end up with is a romance of the gutter, which happens between characters that belong there- and for whom you really don't care that much anyways (unless you belong in the gutter, too). Let me put it this way (and you'll excuse me if I get a little Rabelaisian): When you coat a beautiful mink stole with excrement, you don't have a beautiful mink stole anymore. You have sh_t on a dead rodent. A trip to the gutter, if necessary at all in a storyline, should have a purpose further than to serve as a shock device.
Pain for Teatime.
Then, we have the anti-heroes. I'm not really in for the whole anti-hero worship. The infatuation with that particular archetype tends to be very juvenile. The core of the anti hero is that he does not have any real identity and determination, and are usually shaped and forced by the events that occur to him rather than the other way around: The anti-hero doesn't do what he knows is right because of his determination, but rather because circumstances (mysteriously) conspire against him to the point where he has no apparent choice but to do the right thing. Anti heroes are malleable and amorphous, and usually have their appeal during adolescence- that strange period when you're trying to figure out who you are (if you don't know already) and generally rebel against just about everything. After that, though, clinging to admiration for anti-heroes is rather telling about a person--- after all, we admire what we value.***
There are some very good furry storytellers out there who are publishing their books and comics from whom, I think, one could learn a lesson-- Kyell Gold writes some nice stuff, both erotica and non-erotica alike (although his erotica is more of a romantic nature than your usual share, and it never feels like the book was written around the sex... it seldom, if ever, feels forced or out of place, and there's usually a reason for it), and I am quite fond of "Volle". Vince Suzukawa, the creator of The Class Menagerie, is doing quite well with his new comic, I.S.O. which, although set in territory that some might say is over-used (Coming out story set in a college environment), it isn't Associated Student Bodies: Cody's tale of coming to grips with sexuality is very well told, with good characterization, and the whole concoction is very fresh, actually: no gratuitous sex (though plenty of shirtlessness, which doesn't detracts from anything ;) ) and the comic is very well balanced... balance is what ultimately can make a story truly memorable or a forgettable, uneven venture.
Does this plot make me look fat?
Heathen City isn't that balanced, I am afraid. The art is beautiful, but plot and delivery are weak, and the focus -as I said before- is constantly downwards. As a graphical endeavor, it deserves great kudos, but as a story I am afraid the first installment doesn't impress--- So far, the series gives me the impression of being that teenager consisting of twenty pounds of makeup and one pound of leather and lace, smoking cigarettes through his multi-pierced lips and trying to shock you with the unusual shape of his haircut. It's trying to be so edgy that it cuts itself, and bleeds all over the place. Number two may be different, I'm certainly hoping so, but I am not too optimistic. The author admitted that Heathen City was an erotic work because eroticism in furry publications tends to sell twice as much as non-erotic work. Taking that into mind, I think the story tends to suffer because of the 'quota' element that needs to be met.
If you want something lovely to look at, go ahead and buy it. But if you come for the story, you might have better look looking somewhere else, or ride it out and hope the next issues become more balanced.
But that's just my two cents, after all.
* The naturalist approach concerns itself with the individual as a victim of circumstances, shaped and inconvenienced by them, without input upon his fate. It is usually Deterministic in approach, and its characters are usually 'shades of grey' without many (or any) convictions. The basic premise is one of helplessness, and the events depicted in its plotlines tend to be more accidental narrative than purposeful argument.
** The Romanticist approach concerns itself with the individual as the master of his own destiny, able to take events as they come and react according to his desires and goals, and to confront adversity without being consumed by it. It is Non-deterministic and its plot is driven by the character's decisions, not by their helplessness.
*** A sidenote: People often confuse the term 'anti-hero' for 'non-traditional hero,' where 'hero' is defined very narrowly by convention as someone who is physically and mentally strong as well as unwavering, etcetera, basically a Superman. As an example, Frodo the Hobbit is not an anti-hero, he's quite a hero, in fact: he is given the choice, and he takes the burden of the Ring by choice during the White Council. After his journey to Lorien, it has become very clear to him what a world with Sauron triumphant would be like, and he would rather risk the journey to Moria and certain death than live in a world like that- despite the fact that he is not a great fighter, nor strong and formidable, nor has any great power that sets him apart. Nevertheless, it is his choice, and his commitment to that choice [with understandable moments of weakness under his burden] that makes him a hero.
Episode 71---Anthrocon Aftermath - Woyro talks about his Anthrocon expiriences. Also plays a naughty song about a woodpecker and does some animal news!
Woyro talks about his Anthrocon expiriences. Also plays a naughty song about a woodpecker and does some animal news!
Episode 71---Anthrocon Aftermath - Woyro talks about his Anthrocon expiriences. Also plays a naughty song about a woodpecker and does some animal news!
Categories: Podcasts
The Hero
There's a fine line between "tried and true" and "overplayed." The Hero, by Teiran, skirts this line for most of its story, occasionally dipping more firmly into one category or the other before returning back to the more nebulous state in between, where it's more difficult to tell one from the other.
Set in a world very clearly inspired by Dungeons & Dragons (the author himself even cites as much in his opening notes and devotes the story, in part, to Gary Gygax), the fantasy tropes of the books setting won't be shocking or new to anyone familiar with the game, or indeed, anyone who's read much high fantasy. While this isn't inherently a bad thing—spending less time on fleshing out the setting could mean more time on fleshing out the characters and plot—unfortunately, the room and the opporunity that the author left himself to do something more unique go underutilized. Even the fact that the characters are 'furries' plays little, if any, part in either the story or the way that events play out, being more just a cosmetic veneer than anything else.
The story itself is simple enough: a young hyena named Flint, a lowly servant to a cruel innkeeper, falls in love with traveling wolf adventurer Aldain, a Knight of the Cross (think D&D paladin). Due to religious doctrine, male/male relationships are forbidden, but Flint and Aldain quickly end up having sex anyway, which kicks off the plot proper: Aldain must uphold his knightly duties and his faith, and the naive young Flint traipses along after him anyway, without seeing or realizing what the problem is with a man loving another man.
One big problem with Flint's character, though, is that it's stressed—rather repeatedly—that he's nineteen years old, when he clearly demonstrates the emotional maturity (and intellectual capacity) of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old. Were this the case, the story and the character would make a lot more sense, but as it is, especially given the vehemence with which it's stressed that Flint is, in fact, ninteen, it really feels like the author was trying a bit too hard to wash over any implications of underage sex. In a medieval setting, someone who's ninteen years old should be, for all intents and purposes, an adult, but Flint is so markedly oblivious to things like sex, social mores, and even his own land's cultural values and practices, that it's hard to believe his character (and, subsequently, his emotional responsibility to the story).
The other strange thing about Flint's character is that, despite the fact that his sole motivation in the story is to get back together with Aldain, he paradoxically sleeps with all of Aldain's friends in the process. While this is an erotic novel at its core, and it makes sense to spice up the sex scenes by making use of different characters, it feels kind of awkward and forced, especially given Flint's naïvely vulnerable nature. At one point, one of the other characters actually points out that it's weirdly unusual how the group of them all have this inexorable pull to want to lovingly protect (and sleep with) Flint, which had me hoping that it would turn out to be some kind of supernatural draw on the hyena's part; in the end, though, it just turns out that he's young and doable, which feels like a missed opportunity to do something more interesting with the motivations of the other characters (especially since one of the characters who ends up having sex with him nearly right after meeting him admits to having held no prior inclination towards males).
For a simple story (even the Bad Dog Books website claims that the book doesn't try to be "clever or unique"), there are times when the book tries to introduce more detailed subplots, but these never take off the ground. There are hints at political strife and behind-the-scenes plotting amongst religious higher-ups, which begin to show promise of something deeper, but they never really go anywhere, and the focus of the story remains on Flint's quest for Aldain's love. The church is quite vehement about its anti-gay stance, and yet aside from the clergy themselves, none of the other characters seem to regard homosexuality as being the least bit abhorrent or even unusual, despite the fact that the church is shown to have a pervasive influence in this land. There's the potential for a lot of intense sociopolitical drama and inner conflict for the characters, but it never really blossoms, since the love that Flint and Aldain share is shown to be nothing but this pure and beautiful thing from beginning to end.
The author also notes that the story was originally a shorter piece written for an anthology, but after being rejected, it was suggested as a candidate for a novel, with one of the criteria being that the length be doubled. Unfortunately, the result is that the plot itself isn't quite heavy enough to support a full book. Things like foreshadowing and long-term setup, which are essential for a proper, novel-length work, are missing, and there are several important plot points in the third act that come (sometimes literally) out of nowhere. It really does feel like this would have been better left as a novella or even just a short story.
To its credit, the book does still manage to incorporate erotic elements into the plot in a way that makes sense (even if Flint's naïveté sometimes doesn't). With the exception of the first sex scene (which goes on for 18 pages, in which the characters have sex three times), the sex never goes on for so long that it derails the story, and it never comes out of nowhere. It would help if the plot segments in between the erotic scenes carried more detail for the story, but on its own merits, at least the sex is what it is.
Lastly, one major thing that this book could have used was a serious editing pass, as it looks like the manuscript didn't quite get one. There are plentiful mistakes with comma use, dialogue attribution, and homophonic typos (and there's one embarrassing section that takes place in a desert, where roughly half the time, the word is given as 'dessert'). Combined with frequently awkward paragraph structure (possibly a result of needing to 'pad' the story to novel length), this reinforces the feeling that it may have been a bad idea to try to force what might have been a cute, tightly-woven story into a longer, book-length work.
All in all, The Hero does ultimately succeed at being a cute little love story with some erotic elements thrown in, but it perhaps tries a bit too hard to be a novel when it really could have been happy as a short story.
The Hero
There's a fine line between "tried and true" and "overplayed." The Hero, by Teiran, skirts this line for most of its story, occasionally dipping more firmly into one category or the other before returning back to the more nebulous state in between, where it's more difficult to tell one from the other.
Set in a world very clearly inspired by Dungeons & Dragons (the author himself even cites as much in his opening notes and devotes the story, in part, to Gary Gygax), the fantasy tropes of the books setting won't be shocking or new to anyone familiar with the game, or indeed, anyone who's read much high fantasy. While this isn't inherently a bad thing—spending less time on fleshing out the setting could mean more time on fleshing out the characters and plot—unfortunately, the room and the opporunity that the author left himself to do something more unique go underutilized. Even the fact that the characters are 'furries' plays little, if any, part in either the story or the way that events play out, being more just a cosmetic veneer than anything else.
The story itself is simple enough: a young hyena named Flint, a lowly servant to a cruel innkeeper, falls in love with traveling wolf adventurer Aldain, a Knight of the Cross (think D&D paladin). Due to religious doctrine, male/male relationships are forbidden, but Flint and Aldain quickly end up having sex anyway, which kicks off the plot proper: Aldain must uphold his knightly duties and his faith, and the naive young Flint traipses along after him anyway, without seeing or realizing what the problem is with a man loving another man.
One big problem with Flint's character, though, is that it's stressed—rather repeatedly—that he's nineteen years old, when he clearly demonstrates the emotional maturity (and intellectual capacity) of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old. Were this the case, the story and the character would make a lot more sense, but as it is, especially given the vehemence with which it's stressed that Flint is, in fact, ninteen, it really feels like the author was trying a bit too hard to wash over any implications of underage sex. In a medieval setting, someone who's ninteen years old should be, for all intents and purposes, an adult, but Flint is so markedly oblivious to things like sex, social mores, and even his own land's cultural values and practices, that it's hard to believe his character (and, subsequently, his emotional responsibility to the story).
The other strange thing about Flint's character is that, despite the fact that his sole motivation in the story is to get back together with Aldain, he paradoxically sleeps with all of Aldain's friends in the process. While this is an erotic novel at its core, and it makes sense to spice up the sex scenes by making use of different characters, it feels kind of awkward and forced, especially given Flint's naïvely vulnerable nature. At one point, one of the other characters actually points out that it's weirdly unusual how the group of them all have this inexorable pull to want to lovingly protect (and sleep with) Flint, which had me hoping that it would turn out to be some kind of supernatural draw on the hyena's part; in the end, though, it just turns out that he's young and doable, which feels like a missed opportunity to do something more interesting with the motivations of the other characters (especially since one of the characters who ends up having sex with him nearly right after meeting him admits to having held no prior inclination towards males).
For a simple story (even the Bad Dog Books website claims that the book doesn't try to be "clever or unique"), there are times when the book tries to introduce more detailed subplots, but these never take off the ground. There are hints at political strife and behind-the-scenes plotting amongst religious higher-ups, which begin to show promise of something deeper, but they never really go anywhere, and the focus of the story remains on Flint's quest for Aldain's love. The church is quite vehement about its anti-gay stance, and yet aside from the clergy themselves, none of the other characters seem to regard homosexuality as being the least bit abhorrent or even unusual, despite the fact that the church is shown to have a pervasive influence in this land. There's the potential for a lot of intense sociopolitical drama and inner conflict for the characters, but it never really blossoms, since the love that Flint and Aldain share is shown to be nothing but this pure and beautiful thing from beginning to end.
The author also notes that the story was originally a shorter piece written for an anthology, but after being rejected, it was suggested as a candidate for a novel, with one of the criteria being that the length be doubled. Unfortunately, the result is that the plot itself isn't quite heavy enough to support a full book. Things like foreshadowing and long-term setup, which are essential for a proper, novel-length work, are missing, and there are several important plot points in the third act that come (sometimes literally) out of nowhere. It really does feel like this would have been better left as a novella or even just a short story.
To its credit, the book does still manage to incorporate erotic elements into the plot in a way that makes sense (even if Flint's naïveté sometimes doesn't). With the exception of the first sex scene (which goes on for 18 pages, in which the characters have sex three times), the sex never goes on for so long that it derails the story, and it never comes out of nowhere. It would help if the plot segments in between the erotic scenes carried more detail for the story, but on its own merits, at least the sex is what it is.
Lastly, one major thing that this book could have used was a serious editing pass, as it looks like the manuscript didn't quite get one. There are plentiful mistakes with comma use, dialogue attribution, and homophonic typos (and there's one embarrassing section that takes place in a desert, where roughly half the time, the word is given as 'dessert'). Combined with frequently awkward paragraph structure (possibly a result of needing to 'pad' the story to novel length), this reinforces the feeling that it may have been a bad idea to try to force what might have been a cute, tightly-woven story into a longer, book-length work.
All in all, The Hero does ultimately succeed at being a cute little love story with some erotic elements thrown in, but it perhaps tries a bit too hard to be a novel when it really could have been happy as a short story.
Thousand Leaves
(cross-posted from my writing blog)
Disclaimer: Kevin is a friend of mine and I edited "Thousand Leaves" for Sofawolf, so I am admittedly somewhat biased. :) I read it a while ago, but because it's just been released, I can post this.
Furry fiction lends itself to one of two main types of story: one in which the characters cannot stop obsessing over their "furriness" (whether good or bad), and one in which the furriness barely plays a role. It's rare to find a world that is so internally consistent that the ramifications of a society composed of so many different species are apparent to the reader, but completely ordinary to the characters. It's even rarer to find a good story set in such a world.
The world of "Thousand Leaves" is a multi-species community, at a level of technology roughly contemporary to ours. The city itself is a marvel of architecture and class distinction, with three levels separated from each other physically as well as by class. Reeve, one of the heroes of the book, has just come off a relationship that propelled him into the higher class briefly. He misses both the higher class and the relationship, but more importantly, he's starting to feel that something is wrong with him. His ex, who has taken up with a new boyfriend, misinterprets Reeve's attempts to warn him, even when some of their other upper-class friends start to get sick. Reeve has to turn to their mutual friend Monique and, in a strange turn of events, his ex's new boyfriend, to get to the bottom of the disease.
To tell more about the plot would be to ruin the excitement of what is a tautly constructed thriller. The early part of the book starts slowly, introducing you to the ensemble cast and the spiderweb of relationships that connect them, while laying the groundwork for the medical thriller to come. Think of it as the clack-clack-clack of the roller coaster mounting the hill. Once you crest the hill--and you'll know just where that is--the book doesn't let you go.
Kevin has a terrific touch with character, which allows him to pull off the very tricky feat of having an ensemble cast with character arcs of their own. Each of the personalities in the book is distinct and well-realized, with marvelous dialogue between them. The real joy of "Thousand Leaves" is getting to know the characters, and that's what gives an extra dimension to the medical thriller: you've come to truly care about the characters whose lives are at stake. That's not to short-change his ability to describe the city or the pathos he plunges his cast into, nor the complex plot he has his characters navigate, nor the textured feeling of the world they live in. But the characters are the heart of this book, and a vibrant, engaging heart it is.
I don't usually review Sofawolf books because I'm so intimately involved in the selection, edition, and production. And of course I'm going to say good things about our titles. But I'm particularly proud of having been a part of the release of "Thousand Leaves," not only because it's good for Kevin and good for Sofawolf, but because it's such a great story and exemplar of what we look for in a furry novel. So take my review with a grain of salt, but give "Thousand Leaves" the benefit of the doubt. We wouldn't be printing it if it weren't a great book.
Disclaimer: Kevin is a friend of mine and I edited "Thousand Leaves" for Sofawolf, so I am admittedly somewhat biased. :) I read it a while ago, but because it's just been released, I can post this.
Furry fiction lends itself to one of two main types of story: one in which the characters cannot stop obsessing over their "furriness" (whether good or bad), and one in which the furriness barely plays a role. It's rare to find a world that is so internally consistent that the ramifications of a society composed of so many different species are apparent to the reader, but completely ordinary to the characters. It's even rarer to find a good story set in such a world.
The world of "Thousand Leaves" is a multi-species community, at a level of technology roughly contemporary to ours. The city itself is a marvel of architecture and class distinction, with three levels separated from each other physically as well as by class. Reeve, one of the heroes of the book, has just come off a relationship that propelled him into the higher class briefly. He misses both the higher class and the relationship, but more importantly, he's starting to feel that something is wrong with him. His ex, who has taken up with a new boyfriend, misinterprets Reeve's attempts to warn him, even when some of their other upper-class friends start to get sick. Reeve has to turn to their mutual friend Monique and, in a strange turn of events, his ex's new boyfriend, to get to the bottom of the disease.
To tell more about the plot would be to ruin the excitement of what is a tautly constructed thriller. The early part of the book starts slowly, introducing you to the ensemble cast and the spiderweb of relationships that connect them, while laying the groundwork for the medical thriller to come. Think of it as the clack-clack-clack of the roller coaster mounting the hill. Once you crest the hill--and you'll know just where that is--the book doesn't let you go.
Kevin has a terrific touch with character, which allows him to pull off the very tricky feat of having an ensemble cast with character arcs of their own. Each of the personalities in the book is distinct and well-realized, with marvelous dialogue between them. The real joy of "Thousand Leaves" is getting to know the characters, and that's what gives an extra dimension to the medical thriller: you've come to truly care about the characters whose lives are at stake. That's not to short-change his ability to describe the city or the pathos he plunges his cast into, nor the complex plot he has his characters navigate, nor the textured feeling of the world they live in. But the characters are the heart of this book, and a vibrant, engaging heart it is.
I don't usually review Sofawolf books because I'm so intimately involved in the selection, edition, and production. And of course I'm going to say good things about our titles. But I'm particularly proud of having been a part of the release of "Thousand Leaves," not only because it's good for Kevin and good for Sofawolf, but because it's such a great story and exemplar of what we look for in a furry novel. So take my review with a grain of salt, but give "Thousand Leaves" the benefit of the doubt. We wouldn't be printing it if it weren't a great book.
Thousand Leaves
(cross-posted from my writing blog)
Disclaimer: Kevin is a friend of mine and I edited "Thousand Leaves" for Sofawolf, so I am admittedly somewhat biased. :) I read it a while ago, but because it's just been released, I can post this.
Furry fiction lends itself to one of two main types of story: one in which the characters cannot stop obsessing over their "furriness" (whether good or bad), and one in which the furriness barely plays a role. It's rare to find a world that is so internally consistent that the ramifications of a society composed of so many different species are apparent to the reader, but completely ordinary to the characters. It's even rarer to find a good story set in such a world.
The world of "Thousand Leaves" is a multi-species community, at a level of technology roughly contemporary to ours. The city itself is a marvel of architecture and class distinction, with three levels separated from each other physically as well as by class. Reeve, one of the heroes of the book, has just come off a relationship that propelled him into the higher class briefly. He misses both the higher class and the relationship, but more importantly, he's starting to feel that something is wrong with him. His ex, who has taken up with a new boyfriend, misinterprets Reeve's attempts to warn him, even when some of their other upper-class friends start to get sick. Reeve has to turn to their mutual friend Monique and, in a strange turn of events, his ex's new boyfriend, to get to the bottom of the disease.
To tell more about the plot would be to ruin the excitement of what is a tautly constructed thriller. The early part of the book starts slowly, introducing you to the ensemble cast and the spiderweb of relationships that connect them, while laying the groundwork for the medical thriller to come. Think of it as the clack-clack-clack of the roller coaster mounting the hill. Once you crest the hill--and you'll know just where that is--the book doesn't let you go.
Kevin has a terrific touch with character, which allows him to pull off the very tricky feat of having an ensemble cast with character arcs of their own. Each of the personalities in the book is distinct and well-realized, with marvelous dialogue between them. The real joy of "Thousand Leaves" is getting to know the characters, and that's what gives an extra dimension to the medical thriller: you've come to truly care about the characters whose lives are at stake. That's not to short-change his ability to describe the city or the pathos he plunges his cast into, nor the complex plot he has his characters navigate, nor the textured feeling of the world they live in. But the characters are the heart of this book, and a vibrant, engaging heart it is.
I don't usually review Sofawolf books because I'm so intimately involved in the selection, edition, and production. And of course I'm going to say good things about our titles. But I'm particularly proud of having been a part of the release of "Thousand Leaves," not only because it's good for Kevin and good for Sofawolf, but because it's such a great story and exemplar of what we look for in a furry novel. So take my review with a grain of salt, but give "Thousand Leaves" the benefit of the doubt. We wouldn't be printing it if it weren't a great book.
Disclaimer: Kevin is a friend of mine and I edited "Thousand Leaves" for Sofawolf, so I am admittedly somewhat biased. :) I read it a while ago, but because it's just been released, I can post this.
Furry fiction lends itself to one of two main types of story: one in which the characters cannot stop obsessing over their "furriness" (whether good or bad), and one in which the furriness barely plays a role. It's rare to find a world that is so internally consistent that the ramifications of a society composed of so many different species are apparent to the reader, but completely ordinary to the characters. It's even rarer to find a good story set in such a world.
The world of "Thousand Leaves" is a multi-species community, at a level of technology roughly contemporary to ours. The city itself is a marvel of architecture and class distinction, with three levels separated from each other physically as well as by class. Reeve, one of the heroes of the book, has just come off a relationship that propelled him into the higher class briefly. He misses both the higher class and the relationship, but more importantly, he's starting to feel that something is wrong with him. His ex, who has taken up with a new boyfriend, misinterprets Reeve's attempts to warn him, even when some of their other upper-class friends start to get sick. Reeve has to turn to their mutual friend Monique and, in a strange turn of events, his ex's new boyfriend, to get to the bottom of the disease.
To tell more about the plot would be to ruin the excitement of what is a tautly constructed thriller. The early part of the book starts slowly, introducing you to the ensemble cast and the spiderweb of relationships that connect them, while laying the groundwork for the medical thriller to come. Think of it as the clack-clack-clack of the roller coaster mounting the hill. Once you crest the hill--and you'll know just where that is--the book doesn't let you go.
Kevin has a terrific touch with character, which allows him to pull off the very tricky feat of having an ensemble cast with character arcs of their own. Each of the personalities in the book is distinct and well-realized, with marvelous dialogue between them. The real joy of "Thousand Leaves" is getting to know the characters, and that's what gives an extra dimension to the medical thriller: you've come to truly care about the characters whose lives are at stake. That's not to short-change his ability to describe the city or the pathos he plunges his cast into, nor the complex plot he has his characters navigate, nor the textured feeling of the world they live in. But the characters are the heart of this book, and a vibrant, engaging heart it is.
I don't usually review Sofawolf books because I'm so intimately involved in the selection, edition, and production. And of course I'm going to say good things about our titles. But I'm particularly proud of having been a part of the release of "Thousand Leaves," not only because it's good for Kevin and good for Sofawolf, but because it's such a great story and exemplar of what we look for in a furry novel. So take my review with a grain of salt, but give "Thousand Leaves" the benefit of the doubt. We wouldn't be printing it if it weren't a great book.
'Dream-Carver' by Erin van Hiel
Dream-Carver is the third novel based on Sanguine Productions' pen-and-paper RPG system Ironclaw. For those unfamiliar with the setting, the world of Ironclaw is one populated by anthropomorphic animals, loosely based on Age of Enlightenment Europe, with a hefty dose of magic thrown in to keep things tricky. Unlike, say, D&D, where the conceit is a high-fantasy world, Ironclaw very much stresses things like social conflict, class interaction, and a world where a nobleman might well be more fearsome than a powerful wizard.
In this regard, Dream-Carver is quite successful in capturing the flair of the world and applying it to a story that's quite different from the previous two novels set there (Scars and Black Iron). The central character is Sister Annarisse, an equine priestess who also happens to be of minor noble stock as well. The story does a great job of highlighting just how much authority one person can have when both a member of the clergy and a member of a noble house. Most of this is shown in her interactions with the other two main characters, the vulpine Captain Salvatore (a commoner) and the rather brash Baron Treeden, son of a very powerful wolf noblewoman.
Most of the book takes place with the characters aboard a sailing vessel, which serves as a nice device to keep the characters in contact with one another, especially when their personalities might otherwise cause them to part ways rather swiftly (van Hiel does a great job of letting all of these larger-than-life personages abrade on each other with all the hauteur one would expect of three people who are all used to getting their own way in their respective avenues of life). On the other hand, this means that a good portion of the book is also dedicated to describing the ins and outs of a naval voyage, which will be a good thing if you're interested in that sort of thing, but which could probably be boring and tedious for those who are not.
Description is one area that van Hiel does quite a good job with, both when it comes to aspects of naval history as well as both the romantic and not-so-romantic aspects of the pre-industrial world. In an odd departure from a lot of books featuring animal-people characters, there's markedly less description for the characters themselves; perhaps there's an assumption that the reader will be familiar with what sort of two-legged critters they should be imagining, and it doesn't stand out that much, but it's worth noting. At any rate, as mentioned above, the characters' personalities are well-defined, which is more important than physical appearance, anyway.
The story itself is quite brisk; individual chapters are usually only around 3 to 5 pages long, with each chapter containing at least one point that moves the story forward. Were it not for the subject matter (there are subplots concerning alcoholism, crises of faith, and the ethics of slavery), it's almost structured like the sort of story you'd read a little bit at a time to a child before putting them to bed. As it is, for us grown-up readers, the pacing is nice and fast and the story itself doesn't ever 'drag,' despite the occasional brief stop to describe something in detail.
One complaint is that there are times when it's a bit too obvious that the story is based on a role-playing game setting. New characters join the voyage with little to no preamble, at points, and while they do all eventually find their purpose within the story itself, the method of introduction sometimes feels like, "and then the GM needed to bring this character into things." Similarly, there are one or two minor characters who just kind of drop out of the story without mention once their core purpose has been served. Considering the fast pace of the book, this is more forgivable than it otherwise might be, and if one were unaware of the setting's origins, it might almost go unnoticed.
All in all, this is a well-rendered book that fans of Ironclaw should definitely appreciate, and for those who aren't familiar with that setting, they should enjoy a look at a "furry fantasy world" that isn't too typical of the ones normally portrayed in fantasy novels. The climax and denouement are a bit too rushed, but as is probably appropriate for a story about a naval voyage, it's the journey that's important, and overall, the story itself doesn't disappoint.
Recommended For: fans of 'Ironclaw', low fantasy, and aficionados of naval history
'Dream-Carver' by Erin van Hiel
Dream-Carver is the third novel based on Sanguine Productions' pen-and-paper RPG system Ironclaw. For those unfamiliar with the setting, the world of Ironclaw is one populated by anthropomorphic animals, loosely based on Age of Enlightenment Europe, with a hefty dose of magic thrown in to keep things tricky. Unlike, say, D&D, where the conceit is a high-fantasy world, Ironclaw very much stresses things like social conflict, class interaction, and a world where a nobleman might well be more fearsome than a powerful wizard.
In this regard, Dream-Carver is quite successful in capturing the flair of the world and applying it to a story that's quite different from the previous two novels set there (Scars and Black Iron). The central character is Sister Annarisse, an equine priestess who also happens to be of minor noble stock as well. The story does a great job of highlighting just how much authority one person can have when both a member of the clergy and a member of a noble house. Most of this is shown in her interactions with the other two main characters, the vulpine Captain Salvatore (a commoner) and the rather brash Baron Treeden, son of a very powerful wolf noblewoman.
Most of the book takes place with the characters aboard a sailing vessel, which serves as a nice device to keep the characters in contact with one another, especially when their personalities might otherwise cause them to part ways rather swiftly (van Hiel does a great job of letting all of these larger-than-life personages abrade on each other with all the hauteur one would expect of three people who are all used to getting their own way in their respective avenues of life). On the other hand, this means that a good portion of the book is also dedicated to describing the ins and outs of a naval voyage, which will be a good thing if you're interested in that sort of thing, but which could probably be boring and tedious for those who are not.
Description is one area that van Hiel does quite a good job with, both when it comes to aspects of naval history as well as both the romantic and not-so-romantic aspects of the pre-industrial world. In an odd departure from a lot of books featuring animal-people characters, there's markedly less description for the characters themselves; perhaps there's an assumption that the reader will be familiar with what sort of two-legged critters they should be imagining, and it doesn't stand out that much, but it's worth noting. At any rate, as mentioned above, the characters' personalities are well-defined, which is more important than physical appearance, anyway.
The story itself is quite brisk; individual chapters are usually only around 3 to 5 pages long, with each chapter containing at least one point that moves the story forward. Were it not for the subject matter (there are subplots concerning alcoholism, crises of faith, and the ethics of slavery), it's almost structured like the sort of story you'd read a little bit at a time to a child before putting them to bed. As it is, for us grown-up readers, the pacing is nice and fast and the story itself doesn't ever 'drag,' despite the occasional brief stop to describe something in detail.
One complaint is that there are times when it's a bit too obvious that the story is based on a role-playing game setting. New characters join the voyage with little to no preamble, at points, and while they do all eventually find their purpose within the story itself, the method of introduction sometimes feels like, "and then the GM needed to bring this character into things." Similarly, there are one or two minor characters who just kind of drop out of the story without mention once their core purpose has been served. Considering the fast pace of the book, this is more forgivable than it otherwise might be, and if one were unaware of the setting's origins, it might almost go unnoticed.
All in all, this is a well-rendered book that fans of Ironclaw should definitely appreciate, and for those who aren't familiar with that setting, they should enjoy a look at a "furry fantasy world" that isn't too typical of the ones normally portrayed in fantasy novels. The climax and denouement are a bit too rushed, but as is probably appropriate for a story about a naval voyage, it's the journey that's important, and overall, the story itself doesn't disappoint.
Recommended For: fans of 'Ironclaw', low fantasy, and aficionados of naval history
Episode 70---Off to Anthrocon! - This episode is Woyro's trip diary as he travels to Anthrocon '09 in Pittsburgh.
This episode is Woyro's trip diary as he travels to Anthrocon '09 in Pittsburgh.
Episode 70---Off to Anthrocon! - This episode is Woyro's trip diary as he travels to Anthrocon '09 in Pittsburgh.
Categories: Podcasts
Episode 69---Off to Anthrocon - Woyro gives a preview of whats in store at Antrocon.
Woyro gives a preview of whats in store at Antrocon.
Episode 69---Off to Anthrocon - Woyro gives a preview of whats in store at Antrocon.
Categories: Podcasts
Episode 68--Interview with PA Pawpets - Woyro travels down to Pennsylvania to talk with 2 crazies behind the PA Pawpets show...Wolfdog and Darkwolf.
Woyro travels down to Pennsylvania to talk with 2 crazies behind the PA Pawpets show...Wolfdog and Darkwolf.
Episode 68--Interview with PA Pawpets - Woyro travels down to Pennsylvania to talk with 2 crazies behind the PA Pawpets show...Wolfdog and Darkwolf.
Categories: Podcasts