If, for some reason, a creature that was both full of whimsy and dead-set on enforcing bizarre grammar rules were to challenge me to use only one adjective to accurately describe myself and my general taste for the rest of my life, I would confidently choose the word "particular". If I was allowed a second descriptor, it would be "picky".
All of that is to say that when it comes to the type of media I indulge in, I have an extremely specific idea as to what makes something "enjoyable" to me, personally. And, because of that, I can admittedly be a little tremendously harsh when it comes to books and what I am willing to "put up with" in said books. While I have gleefully used this blog space to reign terror on any unwitting readers, suggesting dusty tomes old enough to be our collective great-grandparents and scads of novels that feature unlikeable protagonists of either the chaotic or downright evil variety, that is only a small fraction of the books that I actually finish. Realistically, I only start reading books, only to flagrantly abandon at the first sight of something I just don't care for (which is often based on my mood, and maybe now is the time to say that if I were permitted a third descriptor, it would be "mercurial").
When it comes to books, I am so ridiculously particular and picky and mercurial, it oftentimes feels difficult to like anything, at all. I will toss aside perfectly good stories because they're "too long" or "not long enough" or "fast-paced" or "twee" or "trying too hard" or "I don't know what it is exactly about this book, only I don't like the way the main character sneezes a lot and for whatever reason that makes me so annoyed I want to go full cryptid and start terrorizing the locals and since I would rather not become a nightmare from legend perhaps I should stop reading this one." If you're thinking to yourself that the last example seems a little too specific, you are correct. If you are also thinking to yourself that you should be frightened of me, you are incorrect, I promise. Did I not just say I would rather not become a nightmare from legend???? (I am definitely safe and I only have four extra teeth, it's FINE.)
The point of these unhinged rants is that, once upon a time, I started reading a T. Kingfisher book and I only made it a few chapters before I started to feel that feral urge again to start biting. To be clear: the characters and the story and even the writing style was altogether charming and I could one thousand percent understand why everyone is losing their minds over this author. And, because I wanted to be one of those people losing their mind over these fantastical stories, I picked up another T. Kingfisher book. Okay, this second one I really did despise. (But only a little.) After those two experiences, I told myself that I did not like this author, that they are, quite frankly, just too funny and silly for me to enjoy their books. Which is fine, because as I mentioned earlier, I am night terror that dislikes every single book except for the ones that I utterly adore. As we say in the book business: there is a reader for every book, and a book for every reader (unless your name is Adam Lopez in which case good luck, buddy).
Imagine my shock and surprise when - after literal years of eyeing that glorious cover - I took a third chance on T. Kingfisher and this time, I absolutely loved it. What Moves the Dead is such a fantastic story, it made me forget for a few days that I am a bunch of grumpy squids in an oversized sweater. The setting is immaculate, with creepy descriptions that seem to burrow underneath your skin, making you question your life-long devotion to mushrooms. Everything about the decrepit house and the family within it is unsettling, with gruesome creatures prowling the grounds that are scary in a way that made me feel like a child again, terrified of the dark, but more curious to know what's inside. The main character, Alex Easton, effortlessly stole my heart and they're not even a nasty little guy! Alex is, in fact, a supremely good person! I am having a major identity crisis right now!
After such a superb reading experience, I was no longer shocked nor surprised when I discovered that the sequel What Feasts at Night is just as wonderful as the first book, only (in my opinion) even more claustrophobic and alarming. The sequel also had the benefit of being so compassionate and kind and respectful to the trauma the characters where experiencing within the text, that I cried when I finished reading. Despite being filled with horrors (actual nightmares from legend), this universe feels comforting and I can finally understand why so many people refer to T. Kingfisher's books as "cozy horror". I would literally pay money to get more Alex Easton books. (Tor, I'm talking directly to you. PLEASE. I BEG YOU. TWO BOOKS IS NOT ENOUGH, I NEED MORE.)
I am pleased to report that I have obtained several other T. Kingfisher books and right now I'm thoroughly enjoying Nettle & Bone.
Usually, when I write off a book or an author, it takes a lot for me to try their work again because I've convinced myself "I just won't like it", which can often make me feel isolated in my own reading preferences. I wasn't kidding when I mentioned earlier that it can feel difficult to enjoy things. Not to get too sappy here at the end, but I'm genuinely glad that I set aside my own reading biases for one minute to give this author another chance. It all goes to show that sometimes, you can be wrong, and that can be a very, very good thing, because maybe that means your new favorite book is waiting for you, if only you give it a chance.
-Adam Lopez is a Readers' Services Assistant at Lawrence Public Library.
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