Review roundup, before the links DEVOUR ALL.

With An Artificial Night [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] just around the corner and the links building up like crazy, it's time for a Toby-centric review roundup. To, y'know, take the pressure off a little bit. Also? It's fun.

First up, the Literate Kitty reminds us where it all began with an excellent review of Rosemary and Rue. She says, "Even though Rosemary and Rue reads as if it came from the pen of an experienced writer, it is, in fact, Seanan McGuire's first published novel...and what a fabulously-engrossing novel she has produced for her debut. Avoiding the major pitfall inherent in the work of so many other writers out there today—that of falling back on yet another retelling of a story we've all read before—McGuire has created a fresh and original story, with an array of well-drawn characters, an extremely well-realized world, and full of intricate plotting—and she has accomplished it all in a poetic, lyrical style." Awesome!

You can't stop the beat, and the Literate Kitty keeps rocking with a review of A Local Habitation. She says, "McGuire has succeeded in fashioning yet another brilliantly-inventive, twisty tale. She’s given me characters I genuinely care about and a world I'm fascinated with; I can hardly wait to see how those characters and that world interact and change and grow as time passes. Far from being a stagnant place which lives only on the printed page, McGuire's creation now runs freely through my imagination...and I'm more than happy to let it do so, for as long as she writes such compelling and beautiful stories." Ahem. Swoon.

Rene at Errant Dreams has posted a thoughtful, balanced review of A Local Habitation, and says, "This book has so many well-constructed layers that I got completely sucked in. I was on tenterhooks worrying about characters that I genuinely cared for, while having a blast learning about and trying to figure out a wonderfully complex set of interactions between the fae and the modern world. And while Toby is definitely an urban fantasy heroine, she manages to do it without a lot of the self-indulgent self-pity that I've seen in other urban fantasy series. This book made me care, laugh, and cry, and I can't wait to see what Toby does next." Win!

I Read Good (great blog name) has posted a review of A Local Habitation, and says, "Once again, Seanan McGuire has delivered an awesome read. A Local Habitation is fantastic." Short, sweet, works for me.

And the cherry atop today's sundae of awesome...a shiny new review of An Artificial Night from Kendra at Lurv ala Mode. She says, "An Artificial Night carries on the series tradition of starting off with a bang and pretty much refusing to let the reader rest from there on out. Which is how I like this series to be: fast-paced, gritty and emotionally gripping." Also: "This has been the kind of series that I ache for the next book immediately upon finishing the current release." So much awesome, there are no words.

That's it for right now; more to come, with a Feed-centric roundup scheduled for this weekend, as I try to beat down the links. Twenty-five days to An Artificial Night!

Like a girl.

When I was a very small Seanan, I wore blue jeans and frilly pink dresses and liked to have my hair cut so short that I looked like I was auditioning to be one of the Midwich Cuckoos. (That impression was helped by the fact that I was a cornsilk blonde who spent all her time in the sun.) I caught lizards and snakes and crawdads and frogs; I collected buckets of garden snails and jars of rolly-polly bugs. I skinned my elbows and knees and stubbed my toes and once gave myself carpet-burn all the way across my face by goofing off on the stairs. I collected My Little Ponies and loved to read just about anything I could get my hands on. I watched He-Man and She-Ra and the Muppets and reruns of Doctor Who, and I never really gave any thought to whether or not I was acting like a girl.

When I was a slightly larger Seanan, I wore blue jeans and flowered jumpers and kept my hair in ponytails so it wouldn't get in my eyes while I was running around the creek or sliding down Cardboard Hill. I drew crazy pictures and read until my eyes ached and spent my Saturday nights watching horror movies and rooting for the monsters. I filled the bathtub with bullfrogs and tried to teach them to follow simple English commands (it didn't work). I still collected My Little Ponies, and my favorite author in the world was Stephen King. When asked what I was going to grow up to be, I usually answered either "a writer" or "a horror movie host, like Elvira," and I was totally planning to marry Vincent Price, because we could honeymoon in any one of his many, many haunted castles. And I still never really gave any thought to whether or not I was acting like a girl.

Somewhere around age eleven, things started changing. Suddenly, about half the things I liked, and had liked my whole life, were "boy things." My love of horror movies was a problem, not because it was going to give me nightmares or warp me into a serial killer, but because it was "worrisome" to other mothers, who thought I might lead their daughters into "bad behavior." This "bad behavior" would apparently involve, I don't know, being able to name the current lineup of the X-Men and explain the mechanics of spaceflight. I was naughty. Again, I was doing exactly what I'd always done, but the world around me was shifting, and I wasn't shifting fast enough to keep up with it. Now, some of this was my fault; I wasn't a very socially aware kid—there was always something more important to do!—and I didn't keep up with the cultural norms. But a lot of it was mystifying to me then, and is mystifying to me now. I'm fortunate to be cisgendered. I have always been a girl, felt like a girl, known I was a girl. I'm just a girl who likes horror movies and musicals, spiders and kittens, Stephen King and My Little Pony. So what the heck is the problem?

Apparently, that is the problem. If I'd been more of a tomboy, people would have had a convenient box into which I could be placed. My sisters, faced with the same issue, grew up to be James Dean and a goth Betty Page. I kept trucking along as Marilyn Munster, frustrating people who wanted me to be easy to categorize. That was okay, because they frustrated me, too. I always just assumed it would eventually go away, and we'd all get to be people, and the girls would do things like girls because girls were doing them, not because of some innate "girliness" of the things, and the boys would do things like boys for the same reason. Better still, maybe we'd all just do things like people.

It didn't go away. If anything, it's gotten worse, since now it's "cute" when I know horror movie trivia, and "totally predictable" when a spider scares the ever-loving crap out of me by dropping on my head while I'm trying to work. It's "strange and interesting" when a girl writes horror, even though the majority of people in your average horror movie audience are female. (Mind you, the gender ratio inverts for written horror, I think largely because there is so much rape in modern horror fiction. Every other chapter, the rape returns. I can skip it when reading, but I have real trouble writing it, current genre standard or not. Maybe I'm weird? But when I write a book, I want to enjoy it, and I don't really enjoy writing about rape.) I'm expected to be nicer, better-dressed, and work harder than the men of my acquaintance, just to stay on the same footing—because otherwise, I'm trying to get by on being a girl.

I am a girl. That's not changing. I am a snake-loving frog-catching horror-watching virus-studying skirt-wearing Midwich Cuckoo Marilyn Munster girl. I'm not getting by on anything. I'm not making comments on gender politics when I combine my Bedazzler with my chainsaw. I'm just being me. It's about the only thing I'm any good at.

Everything I do, I do like a girl. And that's okay.