Once Upon a Fic Exchange

I've got a cup of smokey black tea, I've got macarons, and I'm having a restful afternoon as the weekend wraps up. Other than my two daily trips out to the gym and pool, and a market wander during lunch today, I haven't been further than the bakery — where Matthias and spent an enjoyable time last night, drinking wine and eating a cheese platter with fresh slices of baguette for dinner. The bakery has been doing those wine nights for a couple of years now, but other than a flurry of visits when this was first starting out, I haven't really attended many. I should do it more — wine and cheese by candlelight: what's not to love?

My reading this week has consisted solely of a reread of Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows duology. This was prompted in part by my knowledge that she has gone back in and re-edited the books for new editions, 'correcting' authorial choices that she had felt were flaws or weaknesses of the books. I'm of two minds about this sort of thing — Samantha Shannon did it with the first three books in her dystopian Bone Season series — I understand why authors are itching to get out the red pen and fix weaker writing from earlier in their careers, but I personally wish they would leave things be and have the courage to just view problems in their earlier books as signs of how far they've developed as writers.

One of the things I know Bardugo was planning to 'correct' was to age up her gang of criminal underworld crooks so that the underlying premise (gangleading criminal mastermind aged 17, with his crew of similarly aged misfits, each of whom have equally improbable achievements for characters of their youth) was less ridiculous. I know she received a lot of criticism for this, most of which I felt was misplaced: it's a fantasy YA adventure series, and teenagers in improbable and unlikely positions of leadership and achievement are kind of to be expected in that genre. The absolutely absurd situations in which Kaz Brekker and his gang of unlikely allies find themselves is part of the ridiculous charm of the duology for me, and I have no interest in reading a 'corrected' version with older characters (especially since I imagine all their interpersonal relationships will remain very adolescent in character). For all past rereads of the series, I've relied on library copies, but this was enough to make me bite the bullet and buy secondhand copies of the older editions.

It's been a couple of years since I last read the duology, and I'm pleased to report it remains as enjoyable as ever. The heists and sleights of hand are spectacular and over the top, the stakes are high, the gang of mismatched misfits — all dispossessed in one way or another, almost all refugees or immigrants, all traumatised in one way or another — start out at odds, and ultimately find a sense of resolution, home and healing in each other. The other parts of Bardugo's imagined world in the Grishaverse (fake fantasy Russia, fake fantasy China, fake fantasy Scandinavia) are laughably cartoonish thin caricatures, but her Ketterdam: fake fantasy Amsterdam, a mercantile city of canals, warehouses, schemers, scammers and commerce remains a delightful creation. It's a place where everyone comes to make their fortunes, or to outrun their pasts — where at once no one is at home, and therefore it can be home for anyone. I always love coming back to spend time there. Other than my longstanding quibble with one character death that feels cynically done in order to ensure readers know the story's stakes are high (and Bardugo then having to wildly cast around for the one character she could safely kill off without risking a massive reader backlash or her planned spinoff sequel), I loved it from start to finish, and felt the reread was very worth doing. I'm glad I made the effort to get my hands on those older editions.

My tea is getting cold, so I'll leave things here. I hope everyone's been having restful weekends.

I had to catch the bus home after work on Tuesday, instead of my regular train, but this longer, more frustrating journey was made somewhat enjoyable by the conversation two teenage boys were having behind me. They began the trip updating their respective mothers over the phone that they were going to be late home (with many repeated 'love you Mum! Yeah, love you Mum!' and so on), then pivoted to the epic online sleuthing they had undertaken when one of their friends claimed to have a new girlfriend but only provided photographic evidence of this ('It was so easy! All I had to do was reverse image-search the photo and it was obvious he'd just taken photos of a random girl on Instagram and Pinterest!'), then pivoted to the sort of inane philosophising that teenagers think is deep ('Religion is obviously just a tool for social control ... all wars in history were started because of religion — apart from economic wars'), and finally, having exhausted all other lines of conversation, started talking about how much they loved cheese and just naming different types of cheese ('Halloumi!' 'Gouda!' 'Do you know you can make your own mozzarella?' and so on).

I found the whole thing kind of endearing, and it certainly provided entertainment over the course of the 50-minute bus ride.

I never use headphones in public spaces as I like to stay alert, so I have overheard the most ridiculous things over the years, including:

A woman updating one of her friends about a family member who had just been released from prison

A guy spending the entire hour-long train ride from Cambridge to London instructing his letting agent on how to make a legal case for evicting a tenant from his property

A guy spending the entire Cambridge-London train ride talking through various complex financial market trades he was making

A young guy explaining to his girlfriend (I was sitting across from them on one of those sets of four seats around a table) that his afternoon had involved a) stealing a car, b) being chased by police as he attempted to steal said car, c) crashing the car in the police car chase and getting injured, d) the police attempting to take him to the emergency department at the hospital but refusing to go ('The car owner decided not to press charges, so I said to the police that if they weren't arresting me I didn't want to go with them to hospital') — all at absolute top volume such that the entire crowded carriage could hear every single word

I have also overheard so many specialist doctors call up their colleagues and convey huge amounts of sensitive patient information over the phone, in the reception area of our library, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a person sitting at a reception desk is actually a human being with functioning ears.

I find it absolutely excruciating to talk over the phone in public — anything more than arranging meeting times/places or letting someone know I'm running late and I'll basically immediately tell the person that I'll call them back when I'm at home — so it's always mind-boggling to me the amount of highly personal stuff that some people feel comfortable discussing at top volume in crowded public transport.

So, my question for this week's open thread: what is the strangest thing you've ever overheard on public transport?

I spent a delightful day working from home with the sunlight streaming in through all available (open!) windows, watching birds frolic around our new bird feeder. This latest batch of links has a similarly spring-like feeling — not all are cheerful and light-hearted, but there is a common theme of emerging into light and life.

The first three are all Ukrainian, sparked by the complicated emotions around the four anniversary of Russia's fullscale invasion, on 24th February:

The Kyiv Independent team — journalists, videographers, adminstrative staff and more — took readers behind the scenes to show the ingenuity and determination it took to survive this winter's Russian-inflicted energy crisis and carry on bringing their reporting to the world.

From Ukrainian Institute London, a panel discussion on 'culture as security'

And from chef and campaigner Olia Hercules, a video conversation with Dima Deinega, founder of an (excellent) UK-based Ukrainian vodka company, which ended up being one of the most life-affirming discussions I've experienced.

On other topics:

An interview in the Guardian about being a professional chef in Antarctica

Via tozka, the Persephone Letter, which, to quote tozka, They're subtle marketing, more about vibes, focused on sharing things similar to Persephone Books/the people who enjoy them then about blasting sales info or whatever. If I must be marketed to, I'd rather receive it in this manner: rambly, meandering newsletters or blog posts sprinkled with links to interesting things that give a fuller picture of the person or organisation behind it, rather than just a list of things to buy now.

(Incidentally, the Antarctica link came from a similar newsletter, this one from the Vanderlyle restaurant, which takes a similar approach.)

I think that's it for now.

The weekend kicked off in delightful style with the silent disco on Friday night. It was the usual joyful chaos of crowds dancing and singing their hearts out to the cheesiest music imaginable. Usually the three DJs are split thematically, with one channel playing pop, one alternative music, and one hip hop and rnb, but this time they split up across the decades. I think if I counted every song up, the '90s channel probably slightly won out for me, but I was too busy happily jumping around to count. My face literally hurt from smiling so much and so widely. Amusingly, there was a bit of confusion at the beginning when one of the DJs announced that somehow his channel was being transmitted at Ely train station. I have no idea how this would even be possible, but if true, the commuters heading north or south at 8pm would have had a rather disorienting experience.

Although — in deference to the cathedral location and the fact that most attendees are over forty — the event finished at 11pm and I was home about five minutes later, three hours straight of dancing followed by not enough sleep did take its toll, and my two hours at classes in the gym on Saturday morning were even more exhausting than usual. I made it through, hauled myself into town to meet Matthias at the market, and whipped around doing the grocery shopping at top speed in order to escape the impending rain. We made it into our favourite cafe/bar, amazing food truck cheese, sauerkraut and pickle toasties in hand, just as the first drops began to fall.

Spring is finally starting to show its face — dark pink flowers on the quince tree, crocuses blossoming purple in the raised beds, and other bulbs emerging from the ground. I bought a bird feeder, filled it with mixed seeds, and hung it up in the back garden, although I haven't noticed any birds making particular use of it so far. This year, I'm starting my fermentation plans early, and made a test batch of this sauerkraut yesterday. It needs a few days left alone in a dark cupboard, and then I'll test the results.

This morning was swimming, crepes, river and market wander, with coffee from the rig in the market square. I've just returned downstairs after a very lazy yoga class, and I plan to spend the rest of the afternoon slowly winding down, with my crysanthamum flower tea in hand, catching up on Dreamwidth.

I read two books this week, both in their way dealing with trauma recovery, one with staggeringly better results than the other. The difference in quality is so dramatic that it almost feels unfair to compare them, and yet I can't help doing so due to their thematic overlap.

First up was Deerskin, Robin McKinley's retelling of the 'Donkeyskin' fairytale, which was the remaining recommendation from my post requesting fairytale/mythology retellings. This dark and unsettling fairytale has incestuous rape at its heart, and so for obvious reasons doesn't get included very often in anthology collections. McKinley handles this difficult subject matter with perception and sensitivity, telling a story in which physical and mental flight, and space and time (in a sense outside of space and time) experiencing the cyclical and linear growth of the natural world allow her heroine to return back to herself, in healing, bravery, justice and human connection. One thing I always feel McKinley does very well is convey the full richness of all the senses, and this is on full display in Deerskin: the bite of the winter cold, the softness of a new puppy's first fur, the welcome intense taste of food after a long period of hunger, the way fear and trauma are felt in the body, and so on. The whole thing is just staggeringly well done — McKinley at her absolute best.

The second book was A Theory of Dreaming, Ava Reid's follow-up to her dark academia A Study in Drowning. The former was originally intended as a standalone, and certainly drew its characters' stories to a satisfying close, but given it ended up being a breakaway success almost solely due to TikTok word-of-mouth and reviving its author's career, I assume a sequel was more or less inevitable. Dreaming sees its central couple Effie and Preston return to university, uncovering more shocking secrets about the great canonical works of literature that underpin their two warring nations' origin myths, contend with more institutional sexism, classism and xenophobia, and try to shore up their relationship in the face of Effie's ongoing mental illness and trauma. The problem, as always with Reid, is the complete absence of any subtlety; everything is overexplained and beaten into the reader's head with the clunkiness of a hammer blow. Reid is one of the worst culprits for a kind of fearful authorial overexplanation, as if writing in anticipation of a social media mob ready to descend at the slightest hint that depiction might equal endorsement, spelling out her books' central messages over and over again like a streaming-era TV show putting clunky plot and thematic exposition into its dialogue in case its audience gets distracted by mobile phones and misses something crucial. The rarefied ivory tower privilege of her fictionalised university, the unsophisticated exploration of war, the resolution to all the various injustices piled up on Effie — everything is anxiously spelt out, and then spelt out again, and then concluded in the most 'and then everyone applauded' Tumblr post manner imaginable. As with A Study in Drowning, the inspiration from AS Byatt's Possession is clear (and acknowledged), but honestly, that just made me want to reread Possession again.

I have another Ava Reid book making its way to me at some point via library holds, and I know it's likely to irritate me in similar ways. Her first couple of books had promise, but I feel everything since has been a serious step down in quality, and yet I keep trying.