The Neurospicy Bean

  So I’ve been thinking about this book for a week now and I just don’t know what to make of it. On the one hand, there were elements I adored – Valentin and Carmen were wonderful characters (Carmen was some of the best casual transfemme representation I’ve ever seen), and there were some really beautiful found family moments. On the other hand, the actual plot felt kind of unnecessary, and seemed to resolve too fast – like there was never a real point to it anyway. The vignettes of Poppy’s life l earning to be a vampire were far more interesting to me, and I would have liked to see more. But on the other hand, without a plot to anchor it I think it would have felt adrift and meandering. Which is something I know some readers enjoy, but I personally don’t. I realize this doesn’t sound like much of an actual opinion, but like I said – I just don’t know what to do with this book. I think it will appeal to a certain kind of reader, and I happened to like plenty of it, but I definitely do

  (NetGalley eARC) This is exactly what a retelling should be. One of the challenges that has cropped up with this series of retellings – and all queer retellings – is how to write a queer retelling of a tragedy critiquing humanity’s greatest flaws that’s really just kind of a bummer…without falling into the age-old trap of “bury your gays.” Too much deviation from the original, and you lose the emotional and intellectual core of the story – some of you might remember my frustration with the Great Gatsby retelling earlier in this series. Too loyal to the original, and not only have you not created anything new but you’ve also bought into one of the most insidious, heart-breaking ways that our society tells queer people our existence is inherently a joyless burden. Without getting into spoiler territory, I just want to say: this book absolutely nailed the balancing act. Fundamentally, Romeo and Juliet is a story about young people who are so trapped by their parents and society and wha

Everyone should read this book, just for the perspective it provides. Far too often we’re taught by popular culture that queer community doesn’t exist outside of the western world and that, if trans people existed before 2000, they led repressed lives without access to community or care. These are vast oversimplifications which are challenged and dismantled in Geena Rocero’s biography. I’ll admit that I myself had fallen into these traps, so I was honestly amazed by the stories Rocero told – of the popularity of trans pageants in the Philippines even decades ago, of her transition from a relatively young age, of how the makeup counter at the Macy’s she worked at was known to be where the trans Filipina women worked. This biography provides a window into a world that many of us aren’t aware of – that, in fact, has been deliberately obscured and hidden from us by a culture that wants to teach us that to be queer, especially trans, is to be alone, that we have no history, that we should b

  A little bit of romance, a little bit of politics, a little bit of magic, and some flamboyant queer poets – this book has a whole lot going for it. Despite the title, the book is told primarily from the perspective of Maeve, a death nun who gets caught up in working to solve the mystery of Imogen’s death and subsequent resurrection. Along the way she must confront assassination attempts, decadent parties, and her own doubts about her spirituality. The story features a vibrant array of side characters, many of whom I would have loved to see more of. Speaking of wanting to see more, I would also have liked to see more worldbuilding. What is there certainly isn’t bad, but I want to know more about the sisterhood and religion in this world, the political system on the island, and what the world looks like off the island. I suppose that’s the mark of interesting worldbuilding – I want to see more of the world, instead of feeling overwhelmed by details. My only serious complaint with the b

  I really really liked this but I seriously needed it to be a duology or something. Not because I want more of the story after it ended, but because it got so rushed at the end and it would have been massively improved by just letting it be two books. It has two main elements that are, of course, deeply interwoven. The premise of the book is that a cult popped up through England’s early history who believed that one day King Arthur would return and take his place as ruler of the country, bringing magic back with him. This group is in political conflict with the dominant Catholic Church, which backs Gwen’s father’s right to the throne. Art’s father is a cultist, and Gwen and Art were arranged to be married as children to create ties between the two groups. So that’s one element of the book: a sort of political intrigue storyline. The other element is the relationships between Gwen and the knight she’s been obsessed with for years, Gwen and Art, and Art and Gwen’s brother, Gabriel. Thes

  I have two slightly silly bones to pick with this book before I get into the actual meat of the review. First, it’s pitched as “Scream meets Clueless.” I disagree; I think it’s much more like Scream meets Heathers, with its sardonic social commentary and campy theatrics. So take that for what it’s worth, marketing team. Second, and somewhat more meaningfully: the title of the book stems from the story’s serial killer’s schtick, which is to leave a note on the bodies of his victims saying “Your lonely nights are over.” The serial killer is nicknamed Mr. Sandman, after the song “Mr. Sandman,” where the line your lonely nights are over ostensibly came from. Except…it’s not? I happened to hear the song purely by coincidence while I was partway through the book, and the line is definitely “your lone some nights are over.” I checked every single version and cover of the song I could find, including the original from 1950-something, and in every one it was lonesome, not lonely. And I simp

  Sometimes the queer community gets far too wrapped up in its own discourse and drama, fixating on respectability and optics over the fundamental meaning of queerness or, you know, being a kind person – and that’s what this book is all about. The titular Riley Weaver decides to start a podcast chronicling his dating adventures after being told by a classmate that gay guys aren’t interested in dating someone as femme as Riley. The catch: Riley has to find a masc date in time for the Gaybutante Ball, or he’ll lose his bet and be forced to drop out of his effort to join the Gaybutante Society, his yearslong dream. Throughout the book we see Riley’s experience trying to find someone to date, but also navigating his relationships with his queer friends and what it means to be a little bit famous. Now, there’s a pretty clear flaw in Riley’s logic here: what does it actually mean for a guy to be masc? When gender roles are so fluid and arbitrarily assigned, how can there ever be an objective

  Honestly I don’t have a whole lot to say about this book because I feel like it’s the kind of thing you just have to experience for yourself to understand. It’s very well written and I feel like it does a great job of capturing the complexity of privilege and discrimination, and the way that the dominant culture in this country turns marginalized groups against each other. There were occasional questionable lines – for instance, I found reducing the Catholic Church to nothing more than the religious branch of the Spanish colonial agenda to be a bit reductive to the long, complicated history of the church – but overall, a powerfully personal, fierce book.