Cassie Alexander’s NIGHTSHIFTED: A Review

Most of my friends’ list has gone justifiably apeshit over author Seanan McGuire.  And why not?  Seanan’s got the list of skills it takes to acquire a maddened fan following: a monstrous and engaging imagination.  A deft hand at devising interesting characters.  And the ability to write so fast she can write three different series simultaneously, so every few months see more Seanany goodness delivered straight to your bookshelf.

But there’s a new kid on the block who, I think, also has what it takes to acquire her own rabid fan following.  Her first book in a much longer urban fantasy series, Nightshifted, has been published today.  If you’re smart, you’ll get in on the ground floor.

That woman is one Cassie Alexander, whose debut novel is available for a mere $7.99.  It’s the kind of book that made my bathtub run cold, as I read in the tub and usually get out before I run out of hot water.  But no, Nightshifted kept my ass in cold water, because I wanted to know what happened next.

The hookiness of Nightshifted is evident just in the description:

Nursing school prepared Edie Spence for a lot of things. Burn victims? No problem. Severed limbs? Piece of cake. Vampires? No way in hell. But as the newest nurse on Y4, the secret ward hidden in the bowels of County Hospital, Edie has her hands full with every paranormal patient you can imagine — from vamps and were-things to zombies and beyond…

What I liked about Nightshifted was that we have an imperfect protagonist.  Edie’s prone to having unsafe sex as a way of burning off steam, is too overprotective of her junkie little brother, and her attention occasionally flags when she’s been working an eighteen-hour shift.  She’s not a superhero but a genuine nurse, her flaws balanced out by a kind compassion that lets her connect with the monsters who have wound up within her ward.  The whole plot revolves around her willingness to do the right thing, even at a cost to her own life and soul – which makes her not super, but an actual goddamned hero.

Even the inevitable romantic triangle feels fresh, mainly because one of the romantic leads is a firefighting zombie, who’s one of the more unique takes on zombies I’ve seen recently.  He’s a sexy zombie who is still clearly dead, which is something you don’t see that often.

The biggest problem I had with Nightshifted, honestly, was that at times it felt too packed with interesting things.  Cassie’s dazzling imagination is on full display here, from debates on the proper tranquilizers to use on shapeshifters to the hinted origins of the shadow-monster puppeteers of Y4, to OH HEY HERE’S ANOTHER THING WE DON’T QUITE HAVE TIME TO GET INTO.  I know that this will all be explored in future series, but there were several moments where I was like, “Wait!  I hardly got to know you, and… Oh, you’re gone.”  Which is a strength, I suppose, since most books don’t even have one concept I want to see explored further, but still.

In any case, this is a book well worth reading, because Cassie’s driven.  She’s writing a book every six months, and if you liked this I happen to know there’s two more coming down the pike.  And today is her book birthday, a very important day to a first-time author… So if you’re interested, I’d buy Nightshifted now and help out someone who’s just starting out her career.

It’ll be worth it.  Cassie’s going places.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

Pleased To Meet You, Hope You Write Your Name: A Confused Rant On Autographs

As someone who’s starting to get requests for autographs, I have to admit they puzzle me.  I’m not sure what an autograph is supposed to represent.

I mean, let me tell you that I have the entire Sandman trade paperback series scattered throughout my basement, a series I quite enjoyed.  I was also lucky enough to spend a week in Neil Gaiman’s company at Clarion.  And my friends routinely ask: “Why in God’s name didn’t you have him sign your books?”

I didn’t see a point.  Either I know Neil enough well enough to have him wave “hullo” to me at conventions, or I don’t.  If I know him that well, the signature is superfluous.  And if I don’t, well…

…there’s another author who I also spent a week learning from.  When the workshop was over, so was our relationship.  I’ve seen him/her at conventions at least six times since then, and despite a happy wave s/he has never acknowledged me once.  The single time I attempted to start up a conversation with him/her made it painfully obvious that s/he had bigger fish to fry than me.  Which is fine!  Not every teacher/student relationship needs to end in a happy acquaintanceship.  I paid my money, and got my value; series ended.

But I could have had his/her signature on a book, too.  It would have been a cold, sad thing, a timestamp to say, “We interacted here.”  Yet if that person doesn’t want to interact with me now, then what does that signature prove?  A mere co-location in time and space, coupled with a societal obligation to scrawl their name on a page.  That’s really not that much.

Yet despite the difference in our post-workshop interactions, both Neil and Unnamed Author would be a signature in a book.  And if the autograph is that useless in measuring how I know them, why have it?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve asked for autographs myself, mostly as an excuse to make feeble conversation with someone I admired.  That’s something I understand, that need to have some reason to approach your Big Damn Writing Hero.  And it’s certainly a thrill to have a memory that you met someone whose writing helped to shape who you are.  Here’s the evidence that you had thirty seconds in the presence of your hero!  Wonderful.  What a way to stimulate fond reminiscences.  Because good authors will not just sign your books – they’ll look you in the eyes, ask a question, establish a brief connection so that for a moment, you feel like they were aware of your presence and let you take that home with the book and their name in it.

The autographs themselves, however, are just this weird dross.  An afterthought.  I’m always puzzled by people who show off their autographed books proudly, as if the signature was worthwhile in and of itself.  And there are autograph-hounds who patrol conventions, looking to get signature after signature, just plopping the book down in front of you as though this was some onerous task they have to get through.  “Just sign there, don’t make it out to anyone,” they say, thumbing to the right place, valuing your scribbled name over the potential time of interacting with you, then half-turning away before you’re even done.

I don’t get it.  I’m not bashing it – hey, if it makes you happy, it’s two seconds of my time, I can do it all day.  I just don’t get the idea that a signature is worthy in and of itself.  I’m the sort of person who’s of the opinion that an autograph isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on – what matters is the moments you have with people, commemorative or not.

Thinking the ink is more important than the smile just strikes me as being very, very odd.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.