The Beauty by Aliya Whiteley - A Review

As promised in my earlier post, here are the first of a few independent press reviews of books I've enjoyed in the last 12 months or so, kicking off with Aliya Whiteley's The Beauty:

picture copyright Aliya Whiteley, Unsung Stories

Aliya Whiteley’s novella, The Beauty, effectively condenses enough disturbing, yet beguiling material into its 99 pages that many novelists would find difficult to fit into a novel of 300 pages. Her knack is using a setting that is faintly familiar to those with a fascination with apocalyptic fiction, but throws a more unique, utterly sublime and horrific catastrophe at the reader.

It is a catastrophe that strikes to the very heart of men's fears (women's also, I suspect). But it's a credit to the author's strength they do not labour over the catastrophe, instead she draws the reader into the aftermath via a narrator (who may or may not be reliable due to a penchant of re-writing history or fantasising what others would deem as horrible).

But that’s okay, because like any good storyteller, we’re taken in and are utterly convinced by this likeable narrator, Nate, who leads us on a journey down the darkest paths through the woods. A place where even vegetable matter may prove to be the downfall and resurrection of man. And here lies the disturbing element; the story is about what it takes to survive. Not as an individual, but as a race, a twisted Edenist vision where humanity must begin again, but at what cost to the flesh? 
What cost to the soul?

To tell you more about the story would be to deconstruct a book that is more ideas and experience than plot, where each idea should remain a surprise, if a disconcerting one. This is a story I arrived at without any inkling as to what might happen, and so, in the finest tradition of weird fiction, I preserve this for other readers. You don’t need to know much more about the darkness in these pages, just be prepared for them.

The Beauty is a strange, wonderful, discomforting-at-times, delight. It is as convincing as it is beguiling, and if there is only one criticism, the end comes too early, and you wonder if there are more stories to tell. But as Nate seems reluctant to tell them, (and after what the characters go through, you’ll understand why) it seems fitting the story is picked up by another, or left untold as the future feels so uncertain...

Recommended.

"It's not my paddling pool" feat. Goodreads

copyright Goodreads.com

Well, due in no small part to two friends (Debra Malpass and David Budd) I am now on Goodreads. Debra and David are duelling over the Internet with their reading prowess, or rather how many books they can read in any given time. For someone with limited time such as me - the number of books they get through is overwhelming as it is impressive. 

These two devour books. Over hours or days. 

In comparison I read books over weeks (months if I'm honest) with two or three on the go, but making little head-way with any. 

And you know, I used to read more. 

I used to be a 20 a year man, which is not so bad given that every waking hour is torn between being a father, a husband, a disability employment consultant, and a novelist. 

The latter takes up every shred of time not given over to the first three responsibilities (although, I will at some point hope to dwindle that down to two responsibilities and the writing). 

Finding time to read is, well, nearly futile.

But then, I ask myself, "what is a writer who does not read?" Writers must read, just as a footballer must train or watch football. We become better by learning the skills shown by others. With that in mind, knowing I cannot improve my craft by writing alone, I've gone back to the training field. And who better to train with than other marathon readers who will get me reading miles when I was at best, making short sprints.

Goodreads will do that. Goodreads encourages reading because, shit, it's their business to. And like a personal trainer (or trainers with Debra and David alongside me) it will encourage me to read more. And you know, I love to read. I just need to carve out a time when I can, when I'll enjoy it, create a routine to stick to as I have with my writing, and not feel so apologetic doing so.

And there are benefits in doing so. Because other than the love of reading and improving my own writing, I can reach out to more readers. I'm now an author on Goodreads, and this blog is on there too (albeit crazily formatted - not my fault guys, if you are reading this there). You can even contact me on my profile page - ask an author a question or two, preferably about the writing, but hell, if it's entertaining enough I'll answer anything!

And then there's the reviews.

Now, I dislike rating anything by stars. It's a nonsense, even though I have done so on Goodreads (you can't get reading recommendations without stars, apparently). I'd rather use emoticons, because a person can read a shrug or a grin or a grimace better than they can read your rationale over giving 5 stars, rather than 4. But hey, it's what they do. Amazon does it too, and although their reviewing system is for shit, it appears to work for most people.

So, I guess that leaves the reviews themselves, but I'm reminded by something I posted way back in 2008:

"I don’t often review books on this blog. I guess music and films are different because it’s not my paddling pool and I don’t feel bad peeing in it once in a while. But I don’t like to criticise fellow writers nor do I feel that comfortable hailing them from the mountain-top (though I will do a little pimping now and again)."

Not much has changed since then. I still feel the same way, and besides a very short test-review on a Stephen King collection, I'll be keeping to that ethos of reviewing only independent press publications, self-published books and ones so rare no one has ever heard of them (but should). The major publishers have a legion of readers who will give you their opinion for a moment of your time (and critics who will do likewise to keep their opinions valid in that overwhelming sea of opinion that is the Internet), so really, do you need mine?

And that's about it...

Other than to say, I've replicated my three reviews of books over on Goodreads, those being the two Gareth L. Powell books, and How to Write Tales of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror originally written for this blog.

Coming up, I have a review of Aliya Whiteley's The Beauty to post, and the promised review of Paul Meloy's Islington Crocodiles, one that I promised eons ago, half wrote, but I reckon I can write a better review. It'll give me the chance to revisit that fantastic collection and do it justice.

You'll be able to read both of those reviews here. 

But you can also read them on Goodreads too once they're up.

... Just watch this space, and that space too, folks.