Reading The Riot Act: 2015

Showing posts with label 2015. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 January 2016

tbr

A Year Without Reading: A TBR!

There's nothing worse for a book lover than to get to the end of the year and realise you barely read anything. My Goodreads challenge is pitifully low and I wasn't even close to winning. NaNoWriMo was a bust and overall 2015 had been a suck-ish year in terms of reading for me.

This isn't from not wanting to but simply in the immortal words that writers love to condemn,

'I DIDN'T HAVE THE TIME.'

I'm a third year at University living and tidying my first house. I have to work to pay for said house and at the end of the day, when I drag my knackered bottom to bed, I don't stay up to read. Having a year in which I only read about 20 books (I know that still okay for some people, but one year I got 200 down! Damn I was on point) and I'm sort of freaked out by it and hope this won't be the beginning of a sad bookless life. I'm being dramatic, I've just been busy. Adulting is all about finding routine, once I get that down, I'll be good.

However in 2015, I did purchase a lot of books, and in order to urge myself to get them done, here is a TBR for 2016 of sorts. These are the books I will definitely get read this year, hopefully this month.

A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin
Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo
The Art of Being Normal by Lisa Williamson (Started in 2015)
Throne of Glass 5 by Sarah J Maas
A Court of Mist and Fury by Sarah J Maas
Stolen by Melissa De La Cruz and Michael Johnston
Let It Snow by John Green and More (I'll get it done one year, I swear)

These are just a few I'm hoping to read this year. To make up for my lackluster 2015, I'm also trying to read the books I've been neglecting, that I bought years ago and never read or finished. It's sad really, my TBR shelf is in need of a little TLC.

So how is your book year looking?

Did you rock in 2015?

Let me know!

Happy Reading.

Thursday, 1 October 2015

Mindwalker by A.J. Stieger

Louise Wilkes 15:44:00 0

Warning: Spoilers! (duh.)

At seventeen, Lain Fisher has already aced the Institute's elite training program for Mindwalkers, therapists who use a direct neural link to erase a patient's traumatic memories. A prodigy and the daughter of a renowned scientist-whose unexplained death left her alone in the world-Lain is driven by the need to save others.

When Steven, a troubled classmate, asks her to wipe a horrific childhood experience from his mind, Lain's superiors warn her to stay away. Steven's scars are too deep, they say; the risk too great. Yet the more time Lain spends with him, the more she begins to question everything about her society. As she defies the warnings and explores Steven's memories, it becomes clear that he's connected to something much bigger…something the Institute doesn't want the world to discover.

Lain never expected to be a rule breaker. She certainly didn't plan on falling in love with a boy she's been forbidden to help. But then, she never expected to stumble into a conspiracy that could ignite a revolution.

A.J. Steiger

Published June 4th 2015 Oneworld Publications

Paperback, 400 pages

A graduate of Columbia University in Chicago, A. J. Steiger majored in Fiction Writing, and from the impeccable writing skill within this debut YA novel it was well worth the money. Now, I feel forced to mention that YES! This is a series, but of only two books. BOO! The first book Mindwalker is not simply another dystopian novel trying to make a quick book. This book is a true testament to the genre. YA can so often be passed off as frivolous, less crafted form of novel writing. I have always full-heartedly disagreed, and books like this one are the reason why.

With the upsurgence of positive representation of mental illness currently circling the media, Mindwalker is the perfect book, published at the perfect time. Mindwalker may seem like a typical "teenage girl out to save the world from evil corporation" type book, but in fact, this is novel about depression. This book is about psychology and the world's reaction to it, when the psychological state of someone is not "normal". The protagonist Lain herself has suffered depression after the death of her father, this leads her to require 'conditioning' purging her off "abnormal" thoughts. In a society that treats mental illness as a plague, they label each person according to the strength of their mental psyche. After conditioning Lain gets her number back up to her number, she begins her apprenticeship as a *wait for it* mindwalker! (It's the name of the book, geddit? It's a job)

This career entails in her, removing the memories that scar like daggers. PTSD, sexual abuse and anything else you can think of. She lives the memories and then removes them, what amazing technology! But what happens when she meets a boy who has no memory of his past? Well, I'll tell you what happens. SHIT GOES DOWN! She secretly helps Steven, going through his memories in order to delete them, then she notices something odd. His memories aren't real, he was conditioned to believe false truths...and so the journey begins.

I'll admit, not the most original idea, but then again, are there any original ideas. I think the more important thing about this novel is Steiger's fresh voice. Her voice, her thoughts are what make this narrative so compelling. I am with Lain, on every page through every twist and turn and I am very upset that there are only two books. It is funny and moving, and Lain has this endearing heroine quality in which she isn't violent or coincidentally equipped with amazing talents. Lain is a normal girl trying to do the right thing, and it is so refreshing. You're often taught on writing courses that if your character is good enough, you don't need to worry about a narrative and I think if there was no plot to this story, it would still be compelling because Lain is compelling. Lain and Steven are partners in crime that are here to cause trouble, and you are gonna want to read this book before Mindstormer comes out in 2016.

FAN OF SLATED? THIS IS THE BOOK FOR YOU.

Happy Reading

Sunday, 10 May 2015

sarah j maas

A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

Louise Wilkes 12:06:00 2

Warning: Spoilers! (duh.)

When nineteen-year-old huntress Feyre kills a wolf in the woods, a beast-like creature arrives to demand retribution for it. Dragged to a treacherous magical land she only knows about from legends, Feyre discovers that her captor is not an animal, but Tamlin—one of the lethal, immortal faeries who once ruled their world.

As she dwells on his estate, her feelings for Tamlin transform from icy hostility into a fiery passion that burns through every lie and warning she's been told about the beautiful, dangerous world of the Fae. But an ancient, wicked shadow grows over the faerie lands, and Feyre must find a way to stop it . . . or doom Tamlin—and his world—forever.

In the aftermath of a Fae vs Human deathmatch war, the world has gotten heavily into segregation. With Fae on their side of the wall and humans on theirs, co-existing together is never going to happen. Living in this world is human Feyre (Fay-ruh) a young woman who hunts in order to provide for her impoverish family. After finding a doe, Feyre sees a wolf after her catch and quickly takes its life in order to claim the doe for herself. Afterwards a beast shows up and demands retribution, a life for a life and without spoiling anything good for you, what follows is an enthralling love story based on Beauty and The Beast.

Feyre is our typical Sarah J. Maas heroine, which is a compliment I promise. Selflessness and strength paired with human imperfections but a desire to do whats right, yet with many entertaining opportunities to do wrong. Much Like Celaena (Like Selena but with an A) from Throne of Glass, Feyre is a badass, although doesn't seem like it at first. For the introductory half of the book, most is world and relationship building. The audience does get a sense that their is something being unsaid - or that just doesn't add up logically, which is down to the fantastic writing skill of Maas. She is ace as preemptive writing, she can suggest something and you won't even realise it until its to late, but back to Feyre. Feyre is a delight to read, she comes into herself and stands with such courage at the end of the novel that it is hard not to love her. Much like her TOG counterpart she also has to endure the terrible and inflict the terrible upon others and not only does she do it with dignity, she does it with remorse and a heaviness that I can imagine will run throughout the trilogy.

This book was far more romance based than I originally expected. The second half was primarily what I thought the entire book would be like but then it worked. ACOTAR doesn't follow typical fantasy techniques as it takes out INSTA-LOVE which permeates through YA literature these days. The reason the first half is slower and less action packed is because it is about the journey of falling in love, we know they will and it will be crucial to the story but pulling it out slowly and gently to a natural fall is such a beautiful and realistic way to write.

Not to mention Maas' romantic Acknowledgement to her husband:

As a girl also in love with a Josh, this is giving me all sorts of swoony.

In conclusion I didn't enjoy this as much as TOG, but I didn't expect to. I mean I connected with TOG so incredibly I tattooed words on my body. But this book is good in it's own right. Even if TOG never existed, this would still be a great book and worthy of a 4.5 star recommendation.

Happy Reading

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Sneak Peek

Sneak Peek: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J Maas.

Louise Wilkes 23:59:00 0

This is a brand new sneak peek from Maas' newest novel out May 2015.

Chapter 1

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

I'd been monitoring the parameters of the thicket for an hour, and my vantage point in the crook of a tree branch had turned useless. The gusting wind blew thick flurries to sweep away my tracks, but buried along with them any signs of potential quarry.

Hunger had brought me farther from home than I usually risked, but winter was the hard time. The animals had pulled in, going deeper into the woods than I could follow, leaving me to pick off stragglers one by one, praying they'd last until spring. They hadn't.

I wiped my numb fingers over my eyes, brushing away the flakes clinging to my lashes. Here there were no telltale trees stripped of bark to mark the deer's passing—they hadn't yet moved on. They would remain until the bark ran out, then travel north past the wolves' territory and perhaps into the faerie lands of Prythian—where no mortals would dare go, not unless they had a death wish.

A shudder skittered down my spine at the thought, and I shoved it away, focusing on my surroundings, on the task ahead. That was all I could do, all I'd been able to do for years: focus on surviving the week, the day, the hour ahead. And now, with the snow, I'd be lucky to spot anything—especially from my position up in the tree, scarcely able to see fifteen feet ahead. Stifling a groan as my stiff limbs protested at the movement, I unstrung my bow before easing off the tree.

The icy snow crunched under my fraying boots, and I ground my teeth. Low visibility, unnecessary noise—I was well on my way to yet another fruitless hunt.

Only a few hours of daylight remained. If I didn't leave soon, I'd have to navigate my way home in the dark, and the warnings of the town hunters still rang fresh in my mind: giant wolves were on the prowl, and in numbers. Not to mention whispers of strange folk spotted in the area, tall and eerie and deadly.

Anything but faeries, the hunters had beseeched our long-forgotten gods—and I had secretly prayed alongside them. In the eight years we'd been living in our village, two days' journey from the immortal border of Prythian, we'd been spared an attack—though traveling peddlers sometimes brought stories of distant border towns left in splinters and bones and ashes. These accounts, once rare enough to be dismissed by the village elders as hearsay, had in recent months become commonplace whisperings on every market day.

I had risked much in coming so far into the forest, but we'd finished our last loaf of bread yesterday, and the remainder of our dried meat the day before. Still, I would have rather spent another night with a hungry belly than found myself satisfying the appetite of a wolf. Or a faerie.

Not that there was much of me to feast on. I'd turned gangly by this time of the year, and could count a good number of my ribs. Moving as nimbly and quietly as I could between the trees, I pushed a hand against my hollow and aching stomach. I knew the expression that would be on my two elder sisters' faces when I returned to our cottage empty-handed yet again.

After a few minutes of careful searching, I crouched in a cluster of snow-heavy brambles. Through the thorns, I had a half-decent view of a clearing and the small brook flowing through it. A few holes in the ice suggested it was still frequently used. Hopefully something would come by. Hopefully.

I sighed through my nose, digging the tip of my bow into the ground, and leaned my forehead against the crude curve of wood. We wouldn't last another week without food. And too many families had already started begging for me to hope for handouts from the wealthier townsfolk. I'd witnessed firsthand exactly how far their charity went.

I eased into a more comfortable position and calmed my breathing, straining to listen to the forest over the wind. The snow fell and fell, dancing and curling like sparkling spindrifts, the white fresh and clean against the brown and gray of the world. And despite myself, despite my numb limbs, I quieted that relentless, vicious part of my mind to take in the snow-veiled woods.

Once it had been second nature to savor the contrast of new grass against dark, tilled soil, or an amethyst brooch nestled in folds of emerald silk; once I'd dreamed and breathed and thought in color and light and shape. Sometimes I would even indulge in envisioning a day when my sisters were married and it was only me and Father, with enough food to go around, enough money to buy some paint, and enough time to put those colors and shapes down on paper or canvas or the cottage walls.

Not likely to happen anytime soon—perhaps ever. So I was left with moments like this, admiring the glint of pale winter light on snow. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done it—bothered to notice anything lovely or interesting.

Stolen hours in a decrepit barn with Isaac Hale didn't count; those times were hungry and empty and sometimes cruel, but never lovely.

The howling wind calmed into a soft sighing. The snow fell lazily now, in big, fat clumps that gathered along every nook and bump of the trees. Mesmerizing—the lethal, gentle beauty of the snow. I'd soon have to return to the muddy, frozen roads of the village, to the cramped heat of our cottage. Some small, fragmented part of me recoiled at the thought.

Bushes rustled across the clearing. Drawing my bow was a matter of instinct. I peered through the thorns, and my breath caught.

Less than thirty paces away stood a small doe, not yet too scrawny from winter, but desperate enough to wrench bark from a tree in the clearing.

A deer like that could feed my family for a week or more.

My mouth watered. Quiet as the wind hissing through dead leaves, I took aim.

She continued tearing off strips of bark, chewing slowly, utterly unaware that her death waited yards away.

I could dry half the meat, and we could immediately eat the rest—stews, pies...Her skin could be sold, or perhaps turned into clothing for one of us. I needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed.

My fingers trembled. So much food—such salvation. I took a steadying breath, double-checking my aim.

But there was a pair of golden eyes shining from the brush adjacent to mine. The forest went silent. The wind died. Even the snow paused.

We mortals no longer kept gods to worship, but if I had known their lost names, I would have prayed to them. All of them. Concealed in the thicket, the wolf inched closer, its gaze set on the oblivious doe.

He was enormous—the size of a pony—and though I'd been warned about their presence, my mouth turned bone-dry.

But worse than his size was his unnatural stealth: even as he inched closer in the brush, he remained unheard, unspotted by the doe. No animal that massive could be so quiet. But if he was no ordinary animal, if he was of Prythian origin, if he was somehow a faerie, then being eaten was the least of my concerns.

If he was a faerie, I should already be running.

Yet maybe...maybe it would be a favor to the world, to my village, to myself, to kill him while I remained undetected. Putting an arrow through his eye would be no burden.

But despite his size, he looked like a wolf, moved like a wolf. Animal, I reassured myself. Just an animal. I didn't let myself consider the alternative—not when I needed my head clear, my breathing steady.

I had a hunting knife and three arrows. The first two were ordinary arrows—simple and efficient, and likely no more than bee stings to a wolf that size. But the third arrow, the longest and heaviest one, I'd bought from a traveling peddler during a summer when we'd had enough coppers for extra luxuries. An arrow carved from mountain ash, armed with an iron head.

From songs sung to us as lullabies over our cradles, we all knew from infancy that faeries hated iron. But it was the ash wood that made their immortal, healing magic falter long enough for a human to make a killing blow. Or so legend and rumor claimed. The only proof we had of the ash's effectiveness was its sheer rarity. I'd seen drawings of the trees, but never one with my own eyes—not after the High Fae had burned them all long ago. So few remained, most of them small and sickly and hidden by the nobility within high-walled groves. I'd spent weeks after my purchase debating whether that overpriced bit of wood had been a waste of money, or a fake, and for three years, the ash arrow had sat unused in my quiver.

Now I drew it, keeping my movements minimal, efficient—anything to avoid that monstrous wolf looking in my direction. The arrow was long and heavy enough to inflict damage—possibly kill him, if I aimed right.

My chest became so tight it ached. And in that moment, I realized my life boiled down to one question: Was the wolf alone?

I gripped my bow and drew the string farther back. I was a decent shot, but I'd never faced a wolf. I'd thought it made me lucky—even blessed. But now...I didn't know where to hit or how fast they moved. I couldn't afford to miss. Not when I had only one ash arrow.

And if it was indeed a faerie's heart pounding under that fur, then good riddance. Good riddance, after all their kind had done to us. I wouldn't risk this one later creeping into our village to slaughter and maim and torment. Let him die here and now. I'd be glad to end him.

The wolf crept closer, and a twig snapped beneath one of his paws—each bigger than my hand. The doe went rigid. She glanced to either side, ears straining toward the gray sky. With the wolf's downwind position, she couldn't see or smell him.

His head lowered, and his massive silver body—so perfectly blended into the snow and shadows—sank onto its haunches. The doe was still staring in the wrong direction.

I glanced from the doe to the wolf and back again. At least he was alone—at least I'd been spared that much. But if the wolf scared the doe off, I was left with nothing but a starving, oversize wolf—possibly a faerie—looking for the next-best meal. And if he killed her, destroying precious amounts of hide and fat...

If I judged wrongly, my life wasn't the only one that would be lost. But my life had been reduced to nothing but risks these past eight years that I'd been hunting in the woods, and I'd picked correctly most of the time. Most of the time.

The wolf shot from the brush in a flash of gray and white and black, his yellow fangs gleaming. He was even more gargantuan in the open, a marvel of muscle and speed and brute strength. The doe didn't stand a chance.

I fired the ash arrow before he destroyed much else of her.

The arrow found its mark in his side, and I could have sworn the ground itself shuddered. He barked in pain, releasing the doe's neck as his blood sprayed on the snow—so ruby bright.

He whirled toward me, those yellow eyes wide, hackles raised. His low growl reverberated in the empty pit of my stomach as I surged to my feet, snow churning around me, another arrow drawn.

But the wolf merely looked at me, his maw stained with blood, my ash arrow protruding so vulgarly from his side. The snow began falling again. He looked, and with a sort of awareness and surprise that made me fire the second arrow. Just in case—just in case that intelligence was of the immortal, wicked sort.

He didn't try to dodge the arrow as it went clean through his wide yellow eye.

He collapsed to the ground.

Color and darkness whirled, eddying in my vision, mixing with the snow.

His legs were twitching as a low whine sliced through the wind.

Impossible—he should be dead, not dying. The arrow was through his eye almost to the goose fletching.

But wolf or faerie, it didn't matter. Not with that ash arrow buried in his side. He'd be dead soon enough. Still, my hands shook as I brushed off snow and edged closer, still keeping a good distance. Blood gushed from the wounds I'd given him, staining the snow crimson.

He pawed at the ground, his breathing already slowing. Was he in much pain, or was his whimper just his attempt to shove death away? I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

The snow swirled around us. I stared at him until that coat of charcoal and obsidian and ivory ceased rising and falling. Wolf—definitely just a wolf, despite his size.

The tightness in my chest eased, and I loosed a sigh, my breath clouding in front of me. At least the ash arrow had proved itself to be lethal, regardless of who or what it took down.

A rapid examination of the doe told me I could carry only one animal—and even that would be a struggle. But it was a shame to leave the wolf.

Though it wasted precious minutes—minutes during which any predator could smell the fresh blood—I skinned him and cleaned my arrows as best I could. If anything, it warmed my hands. I wrapped the bloody side of his pelt around the doe's death-wound before I hoisted her across my shoulders. It was several miles back to our cottage, and I didn't need a trail of blood leading every animal with fangs and claws straight to me.

Grunting against the weight, I grasped the legs of the deer and spared a final glance at the steaming carcass of the wolf. His remaining golden eye now stared at the snow—heavy sky, and for a moment, I wished I had it in me to feel remorse for the dead thing.

But this was the forest, and it was winter.

So what do you think? Is this going to be just as good as Throne of Glass? Are you excited? Well, you should be.
Here she is, the author herself to introduce the new series.
My hopes are high...very high.
Happy Reading.