Read Harder Challenge 2018

Read Harder 2018 Challenge – My Finished List

This was my second year doing Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself again. Admittedly, I feel weird about gameifying my reading the same way I obsessively track my steps, my phone usage, and my sleep, but nevertheless I did push myself to read more widely this year and read quite a few books I’ve been loudly recommending that I might not have encountered otherwise. I think the benefits of that outweigh the uneasy sense that I’m on the path to sublimating myself into one semi-sentient to-do list of a consciousness.

This represents about half of my 2018 reading and about 18,000 words of writing. And I plan to do the 2019 challenge this year, so Mom, get ready to comment!

  1. A book published posthumously: The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
  2. A book of true crime: The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule
  3. A classic of genre fiction (i.e. mystery, sci fi/fantasy, romance): Kindred by Octavia Butler
  4. A comic written and drawn by the same person: My Favorite Thing Is Monsters by Emil Ferris
  5. A book set in or about one of the five BRICS countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China, or South Africa): The Devourers by Indra Das
  6. A book about nature: Rain: A Natural and Cultural History by Cynthia Barnett
  7. A western: Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
  8. A comic written or drawn by a person of color: The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui
  9. A book of colonial or postcolonial literature: The Inconvenient Indian: A Curious Account of Native People in North America by Thomas King
  10. A romance novel by or about a person of color: An Extraordinary Union by Alyssa Cole
  11. A children’s classic published before 1980: Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor
  12. A celebrity memoir: Leonard by William Shatner / Vacationland by John Hodgman
  13. An Oprah Book Club selection: The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
  14. A book of social science: American Fire: Love, Arson, and Life in a Vanishing Land by Monica Hesse
  15. A one-sitting book: Mapping the Interior by Stephen Graham Jones
  16. The first book in a new-to-you YA or middle grade series: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin
  17. A sci fi novel with a female protagonist by a female author: The Stars Are Legion by Kameron Hurley
  18. A comic that isn’t published by Marvel, DC, or Image: Nick Cave: Mercy on Me by Reinhard Kleist
  19. A book of genre fiction in translation: The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin
  20. A book with a cover you hate: Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse – and I feel guilty about this!
  21. A mystery by a person of color or LGBTQ+ author: Long Black Veil by Jennifer Finney Boylan
  22. An essay anthology: The Fire This Time, edited by Jesmyn Ward
  23. A book with a female protagonist over the age of 60: An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine
  24. An assigned book you hated (or never finished): Ada, or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov

RHC 2018: Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle by Vladimir Nabokov

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read an assigned book you hated (or never finished).

I usually get my assigned reading done, and it’s rare for me to really hate a book. So the only thing that came to mind when I saw this task was a title that made my shoulders slump: Ada, or Ardor thoroughly bested me in college. I was in a Nabokov senior seminar at the time, so it’s not like I wasn’t entirely primed for some intense textual gamesmanship, but I stalled out no later than a third of the way through. In class, our professor asked how many of us had failed to finish the reading. The ten or so of us English major Carleton kids (a species that typically finishes its reading) glanced nervously at each other. I don’t know who raised their hand first, but we all sheepishly followed suit.

The professor shrugged amiably. “This wouldn’t be okay normally [it really wouldn’t have been okay normally. – ed.],” he said, “but I expect it with this one.”

RHC 2018: The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read an Oprah Book Club selection.

I hate to admit this, but I don’t think I had read anything by Faulkner outside of a “A Rose for Emily” in my tenth grade English class. I often think back to the course descriptions in the Carleton catalog, particularly the entry for the class on Southern Gothic literature, and I want to go back in time and shake my former self until past me registered for that one.

I’m still totally shocked with myself for not taking that class.

The truth is that I haven’t read a whole lot out of one of the nastiest, lushest, most exciting (to me) bodies of regional American literature. I wish I’d read The Sound and the Fury at Carleton with that particular prof, who I loved (why didn’t I take that damn class???), but that opportunity is gone.

Anyway, some fifteen years later, I’m actively trying to rectify this gaping hole in my literary knowledge, and so I tackled The Sound and the Fury for this task. I did it like a good English major, too, by buying a used Norton Critical Edition and diving in, note-taking pen in hand.

RHC 2018: American Fire: Love, Arson, and Life in a Vanishing Land by Monica Hesse

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a book of social science.

Alternate: Read a book of true crime.

Arson is an odd crime, and American Fire is an odd story. In 2013, a couple were convicted of setting over seventy fires in rural Accomack County on Virginia’s Eastern Shore. For the most part, the fires were set in abandoned structures, of which the former richest rural county in the state had plenty. These weren’t crimes intended to hurt anyone (at one scene, the arsonists had been careful to let chickens out before starting a fire).

As property crimes go, arson’s simplicity is positively elegant. It’s not an easy crime to solve, particularly when the criminals are exercising as much spontaneous nuttiness as Charlie Smith and Tonya Bundick apparently exhibited. In this case, the hunt for the arson spree culprit(s) lasted about six months, spawning Facebook vigilante groups complete with merch to sell, conspiracy theories, and an oppressive public obsession with where the next blaze would be lit.

RHC 2018: An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a book with a female protagonist over the age of 60.

An Unnecessary Woman is narrated by Aaliya, a 72-year-old divorced reclusive atheist in Beirut. She is a fun character. She’s fierce, funny, and incredibly intelligent, and her inner life is the most intellectually rich of just about anyone I’ve encountered in fiction.

Aaliya spent most of her life working at a book store, but her real (unpaid, unread) work is translation. Her New Year’s ritual involves beginning a new translation project, which will eventually be loving placed in a cardboard box in the maid’s room, along with all her other manuscripts. She isn’t an academic, and she never shows anyone her work – she simply loves books and words for their own sake. I described her as an atheist, which isn’t entirely true. She names reading as her religion more than once, and it actually doesn’t sound like hyperbole. Her relationship with literature feels truly personally sacred.

RHC 2018: The Fire This Time edited by Jesmyn Ward

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read an essay anthology.

This is a really great collection of essays and poetry about race in the United States. It was published in 2017, and many of these pieces are responses to the epidemic of police violence against black Americans during the Obama administration. It was a tough read here in 2018, knowing that shortly after the events that spurred this collection, which is dedicated to Trayvon Martin, white supremacism has only become more visible and more confident. It’s not a very physically heavy book, but man does it have some serious intellectual and emotional weight.

The book consists of fifteen essays and three poems, divided into three sections: Legacy, Reckoning, and Jubilee. In the Legacy section, writers reflect on the past through all kinds of lenses – family history, a visit to James Baldwin’s Paris residence, an aching search for information on slave burials in New England (“Lonely in America” by Wendy S. Walters, one of my favorites in the collection), genetic testing (“Cracking the Code,” by Jesmyn Ward, another favorite), a reexamination of the historical record regarding Phillis Wheatley’s husband, and Carol Anderson’s article “White Rage,” which was expanded into a book.

RHC 2018: Mapping the Interior by Stephen Graham Jones

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a one-sitting book.

I knew what I was going to read for this task as soon as I saw it. I waited for a day when I went into work late and my daughter was at daycare, giving me a delicious stretch of time to eat ice cream and savor this one entirely at my leisure.

Full disclosure: I’m not particularly objective when it comes to this particular writer. Here’s why. In 2015 or so, I’d attended a free workshop at the Fayetteville Public Library by Toni Jensen, a professor in the University of Arkansas’ creative writing department. Her presentation was about mashing up genre and literary technique. It was a really good one, too.

A million years ago, I’d thought I was going to apply to this particular MFA program but had been put off by its crystal clear statement regarding genre – no, and get offa my lawn, I think was roughly what the department website said at the time. So I was pleasantly surprised by Toni Jensen’s approach, which didn’t assign any moral value to the terms “genre” and “literary.” Instead, she had a very practical explanation of what fell under each column and how and when it made sense to mix things up. She asked us all what we wrote, and I shyly copped to horror. She suggested I read Stephen Graham Jones.

RHC 2018: The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a book of genre fiction in translation.

My husband Chris and I lived in China for a couple of years (Chris was actually there two years before I arrived on the scene – it’s a long story). China is a huge, complicated, wonderful, horrifying, contradictory place that I’ll always have an odd, incomplete but entirely fascinated connection with. Two years felt like enough time to imperceptibly scratch the surface of the country.

But it was enough time to watch Spring Festival fireworks from a hotel rooftop, to drink way too much baijiu in a sleeper train car, to see pictures of my shy landlord’s brand new twins, to spend a lazy afternoon rambling around a city park full of plum blossoms, to go to weddings, to have cashiers and vendors greet me with a big smile of recognition in spite of the language barrier, to make some friends. I feel like there is a tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny little scrap of China that I know, understand, and love, and it’s not enough to make me feel like I’m any kind of an authority on anything Chinese, but it is enough to make my ears perk up when I hear the word “China” and to give me some powerful nostalgia tinged with a little bit of sadness. The pace of change there is so fast that I know the place I left doesn’t really exist anymore. It’s probably better now, I know, but it’s almost definitely unrecognizable. 

RHC 2018: Long Black Veil by Jennifer Finney Boylan

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a mystery by a person of color or LGBTQ+ author.

Long Black Veil is probably technically more of a thriller than a murder mystery, and it’s a fast, fun read (aside from a few gripes). I’m not sure if it counts as a mystery if you find out who the killer is at the 50% mark, but it’s already October, so I’m counting it.

**Some spoilers ahead, though they do happen fairly early on.**

I’ll start with what I liked. The protagonist is Judith, who was named Quentin in the 1980s timeline in which Quentin and half her liberal arts school (hyperbole) break into an abandoned prison. The escapade ends with their recently married friend Wailer missing and presumed dead. After the prison incident, Quentin pushes her car into the ocean, essentially and successfully faking her own death so that she can transition and live publicly as Judith.

RHC 2018: The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a comic written or drawn by a person of color.

When I became a parent, in between the tectonic shifts in my hormonal makeup, sleep deprivation, and adjustment to having such a strange and tiny new housemate, I thought about my own parents a lot. Like me, both of my parents had a lot of life before any of their three children showed up. But they were also devoted, loving, wonderful parents – to the point that it’s hard to think of them as anyone other than Mom and Dad. Parental identity is a hell of a thing, and finding yourself in that role is an incredible empathy builder for the people in your life who took it on for you.

Thi Bui’s graphic memoir The Best We Could Do begins with the birth of the creator’s son in 2005 while her mother waits outside her room. The first few pages cover that hallucinatory time in the hospital after the birth. After Thi’s mom leaves, Thi thinks, “A terrifying thought creeps into my head. Family is now something I have created – and not just something I was born into.”

RHC 2018: Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a book with a cover you hate.

Alternatives: Read a western, read a sci fi novel with a female protagonist written by a female author. 

I feel like a jerk for choosing this book for this task. To be fair, “hate” is a strong word here – I mostly just wanted to read Trail of Lightning and this was the closest task I could get to it.

However, I really don’t care for novels with illustrations of the main characters on the cover generally. It makes me feel like my toes are being stepped on by forcing a picture into my head. I read comics when I’m feeling like engaging that side of my brain (and I love comics!).That said, it’s worth noting that the characters on the cover of this book are Native and that I definitely should not be complaining about the appearance of badass women of color showing up on book jackets. Also, to be clear, Maggie isn’t hypersexualized or out-of-proportion or anything, so it could be much, much worse. So apologies to the artist – this is strictly a personal taste thing, and if anyone even remotely connected to this book sees this, just, you know, ignore me, my grumpy old person-ness, and my weird hang ups about seeing characters before reading about them.

Like I said, I really wanted to read this book, and I was not in any way disappointed.

RHC 2018: An Extraordinary Union by Alyssa Cole

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a romance novel by or about a person of color.

In some ways, romance really is the other side of the horror coin. A novel basically consists of bad things happening to good interesting people who are desperately trying to get something they want. Horror beds down in the “bad things” part of that equation, while romance concerns itself with the “want” bit. Horror, like romance, is also a rather maligned genre, though I’d argue that the criticism of romance has a much more sexist tone (which is maddeningly unsurprising, considering most romance is written by and for women), and so I’m always ready to take up for it.

I was especially interested in this task because of the controversy surrounding the Rita Awards and the significant barriers thrown up for romance writers of colorAn Extraordinary Union was a blockbuster title last summer, and for very good reason. I tore through it in a couple of days earlier in the summer. The heroine Elle is a Union spy posing as a slave in order to uncover a Confederate plot. The hero is also a Union spy posing as a Confederate war hero. That all makes for a short, explosive fuse, and both characters are smart, grounded, and easy to root for. And sure, in the hands of a lesser writer, this interracial Civil War era relationship (with a happy ending, no less!) could have gotten into Capital P Problematic territory faster than you can say power differential. That amazingly doesn’t happen, and there’s a rich and well-researched backdrop to the proceedings to boot.

The first book that came to mind reading this wasn’t any other romance novel I’ve read (I haven’t read many though) – it was Kindred, which I read earlier this year. Like Kindred, An Extraordinary Union approaches slavery through the eyes of someone forced to pretend to be a slave. It’s a device that does an incredible job of getting across the absolutely disgusting humiliation of slavery in addition to its physical horror. An Extraordinary Union manages to give its characters the happy ending that’s pretty much a requirement of the genre, but man do they have to fight for it. Kindred’s ending makes a very vivid statement about the continued impact of slavery on the present, but An Extraordinary Union’s concluding scenes actually express a little hope. Frankly, here and now, it’s hard to resist that kind of catnip.

RHC 2018: <em>The Stars Are Legion</em> by Kameron Hurley

RHC 2018: The Stars Are Legion by Kameron Hurley

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a sci fi novel with a female protagonist by a female author.

I feel like I completed this task with honors, since Kameron Hurley’s book not only features a pair of female protagonists, but is set in a corner of the universe where not only do men not exist, at all, but their absence isn’t remarked upon a single time. It’s a sweeping bloody love story complete with massive wars, terrifying machinery, political intrigue, and freaky fetuses.

I haven’t read a pure sci fi book in years. I’m not even particularly sci-fi literate, really. I’ve read some of the big stuff, like Dune (which I found pretty annoying, honestly), Stranger in a Strange Land (which *really* annoyed me, for reasons I can’t even remember), Ender’s Game (which I loved and taught me a hard lesson in the difference between the creator and the creation), and the expected dystopias, but I’m admittedly not automatically excited about seeing a space ship on a cover.

[Caveat caveat caveat: nothing wrong with a spaceship on the cover! Read what you like to read!]

That said, I did enjoy The Stars Are Legion more than I thought I was going to. It’s set in a solar system of organic shipworlds (in one language in the book, “ship” and “world” are the same word) – planet-sized systems that may or may not be synthetic. The ships require organic material for fuel, which means that characters make grim comments about how the ships eat everyone in the end and that the word “recycling” takes on a much more threatening term. The ships absorb their own waste (and their own residents), and most are suffering from world-sized cancerous rot.

The dedication – “for all the brutal women” – is a great point of entry into a violent, surprising, and, um, squishy tale that feels more Alien: Resurrection than Star Trek. Protagonists Zan and Jayd both have blood on their hands, but there’s never any need for them to balance their warlike ways with their femininity or whatever like you see in a more typical “strong female character” situation, since there are no dudes in the damn galaxy. It’s a nonissue.

And yet pregnancy plays a surprising role in the very body horror-inflected plot. “The ship produces what it needs,” is a constant refrain. Pregnancy is a great central image for Zan’s story, too, since most of her narrative trajectory involves her crawling from the very center of the world back to its surface.

So, overall, this was a really fun and inventive (and really gross and violent, so your mileage may vary) book. I found some of the world building to be a little convoluted and it felt like there was an awful lot going on for a single 400-page volume, but that might be a failing on my non-sci-fi-reading part. I would definitely read a sequel.

RHC 2018: <em>Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry</em> Mildred D. Taylor

RHC 2018: Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry Mildred D. Taylor

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a children’s classic published before 1980.

This is such a damned good book, and it was every bit as gripping this time around as it was the last time I read it a quarter of a century or so ago.

I’m usually bothered by nostalgia when it comes to libraries (just stick with this train of thought for a minute). I work in a busy public library, and I know the value of what I do. However, I’m not sure that people with fond library memories who don’t actually use the library today quite get what my actual profession entails.

Don’t get me wrong, any children’s librarian worth his or her salt should give a child an impression that our days are spent being kindly and putting exactly the right book in young people’s hands at exactly the right moment. And we do that, for all ages. It’s one of most of my colleagues’ favorite types of library interaction. Buuuuuut there’s more to it. A LOT more to it.

First of all, we’re not all children’s librarians. Over on the adult side, the job involves anything from providing community tech support to helping schedule visitations with incarcerated family members to genealogy research to legal and medical self-help and research to handling mental health and substance abuse issues professionally and compassionately. The truth is, most of us love books as much as you’d expect, but at its heart this is an information profession, and our razor sharp book recommendation game is only one blade in the Swiss army knife of our skill set.

RHC 2018: <em>My Favorite Thing Is Monsters</em> by Emil Ferris

RHC 2018: My Favorite Thing Is Monsters by Emil Ferris

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a comic written and drawn by the same person.

Just stop what you’re doing and go read this comic right now.


Okay, great, now that you’ve called in sick to work or whatever other obligations you may have and devoured this enormous and gloriously messy jewel of a book in close to one sitting, let’s continue. Comics make up a decent percentage of my reading diet, and this is one of the best if not the best I’ve read in a really long time (I read the first two volumes of Monstress recently, too, so there’s fierce competition).

Plenty of comics get lots of energy from being produced by a creative team, and I don’t mean to suggest that single writer-artist-produced work is intrinsically superior, but this is definitely a book that I think is stronger for being entirely housed in one person’s brain. The writing and the art both feel incredibly personal, and it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.

I don’t really know where to start here. Karen Reyes is growing up in 1960s Chicago, she is obsessed with monsters (specifically, transforming into one), and is trying to solve the murder of the Holocaust survivor who lives upstairs. The book takes the form of Karen’s sketch book, complete with notebook paper lines and doodles in the margins. It’s staggeringly gorgeous colored pencil art (I particularly admire the chapter breaks, which take the form of splendidly rendered pulp magazine covers), and it’s more or less panel-less. It doesn’t follow many of the conventions one expects from a comic book, and it’s so so so damn good as a result.

There is a lot going on here. Karen is gay, with Mexican, Irish, and Cherokee branches in her family tree. She loves her single mother and worships her older brother Deeze. She has trouble at school, mostly because she is an intensely odd little kid (to drive the point home, she draws herself as a furry little monster wearing a trench coat, complete with an adorable underbite revealing her tusks). The book is part murder mystery, part coming of age story, part character exploration of her Uptown Chicago neighborhood, part flashback to murdered Anka’s past. It’s full of monsters and magic and all the heartbreak and senselessness of the world that even monsters and magic can’t completely distract Karen from.

It’s not precisely a horror comic, but it’s also not not-a-horror-comic, if that makes sense. It is absolutely worth your time, even if you don’t have a special place in your heart for B-movie monsters, comics, and weirdos. If you do have that heart space reserved, though, this is one for your permanent collection.

RHC 2018: <em>Where the Mountain Meets the Moon</em> by Grace Lin

RHC 2018: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: The first book in a new-to-you YA or middle grade series.

I adore middle grade books. These are the books that come to mind when I imagine my happiest reading moments and that I’m probably the most excited to share with my daughter once she gets old enough. For starters, The Trumpet of the Swan (Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web too, but TotS doesn’t get nearly enough love), The Borrowers, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Julie of the Wolves, The Giver, The Yearling, all of the horse books, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Little Women, Madeleine L’Engle, all the books where the dog dies horribly, etc.

These are the books that I think about when I think about peak childhood summer afternoons. Before puberty complicated everything, it was hard to beat the pleasure of stretching out on the couch in the living room with a good book and a bag of Lays sour cream and onion potato chips, occasionally tipping my head back to watch benign cumulus clouds float overhead and occasionally get between me and the sun, making the room go comfortably dark for a few minutes. 

RHC 2018: <em>Lonesome Dove</em> by Larry McMurtry and <em>The Inconvenient Indian</em> by Thomas King

RHC 2018: Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry and The Inconvenient Indian by Thomas King

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task 1: Read a western.

Task 2: Read a book of colonial (Lonesome Dove) or postcolonial (The Inconvenient Indian) literature. 

I’m getting behind with my posting! Weirdly not with the reading itself, just with the odd “write a brief term paper” requirement I’ve tacked on to this challenge. I guess I’ve sort of been putting off this post, because it’s a complicated one.

Back in April, I didn’t just read a western, I read the western – all 843 pages of Lonesome Dove. Truthfully, I haven’t had quite that much fun reading anything in quite some time. Lonesome Dove tapped into a part of my reader brain that I sometimes worry I’ve outgrown – that state of being completely engrossed, up way past my bedtime, and just wanting everyone to get out of my way so I can read.

There are going to be major caveats on this, so bear with me.

RHC 2018: <em>Kindred</em> by Octavia Butler

RHC 2018: Kindred by Octavia Butler

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a classic of genre fiction.

Before I read Kindred, I had a lot of guilt over not reading more Octavia Butler. I don’t have that guilt anymore, because she just got moved off the “I should read” list and onto the “now now now” list. I’m not going to be a person who hasn’t read a ton of Octavia Butler for very much longer.

If you suffer from Octavia Butler-related guilt, Bloodchild (feminist body horror at its squicky, squelchy finest) is online, and you should stop what you’re doing and go read that right now.

Kindred is the story of Dana, a woman who lives in Los Angeles in 1976, who finds herself transported to Maryland in the early eighteen hundreds. Here’s a silly bit of ignorance from me – I did a double take at hearing Maryland repeatedly referred to as the antebellum South. “Isn’t that New England?” I kept asking myself. Nope, and I need remedial geography and history lessons, apparently.

RHC 2018: <em>Nick Cave: Mercy on Me</em> by Reinhart Kleist

RHC 2018: Nick Cave: Mercy on Me by Reinhart Kleist

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: A comic that isn’t published by Marvel, DC, or Image.

Alternate: A comic written and drawn by the same person.

This post got a little out of control in terms of length and amount of navel gazing. It also has very little do to do with the comic. So buckle up.

Reinhart Kleist’s graphic biography Nick Cave: Mercy on Me was the comics equivalent of a pint of Cherry Garcia for me. And I enjoyed a large portion of it during my daughter’s nap with a literal pint of Cherry Garcia (it was a wonderful afternoon).

This is a treat if, and possibly only if, you’re enough of a Nick Cave fan to immediately recognize his lyrics after being translated into German and then back again into English, grin every time Kleist’s art perfectly renders Cave’s constant vampire pout, or enjoy seeing characters from his songs loose and mouthy on the page (though I was disappointed that Kylie Minogue’s blandly virginal Wild Rose made an appearance instead of PJ Harvey’s infinitely more interesting murderess).

I am this target audience.

RHC 2018: <em>Rain: A Natural and Cultural History</em> by Cynthia Barnett

RHC 2018: Rain: A Natural and Cultural History by Cynthia Barnett

This post is part of a series in which I describe the twenty-four books I read in 2018 for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge

Task: Read a book about nature. 

I love rainy days. Obviously, there’s nothing like a downpour to compliment a good mope, but rainy days are wonderful for good moods too. Nothing short of winter precipitation makes an interior cozier than the sound of rain on the roof and the sight of it running down the window panes. Imagine the perfect summer afternoon spent with a favorite beverage and a good book and tell me it isn’t raining outside.

Cynthia Barnett’s book Rain is beautifully written, and I had the good luck of reading it during a very rainy early spring week. The book is organized into five sections – Elemental Rain, Chance of Rain, Capturing the Rain, American Rain, and Mercurial Rain. My favorite section was the first, particularly the chapter on rain in religion (“Praying for Rain”). It included all kinds of fascinating interpretations of rain, including a hilltop temple goddess whose three day period kicks off monsoon season. Crowds gather to dip cloth in her sacred menstrual fluids at the Ambubachi Festival. It’s wonderful to see a period get celebrated, you know?