I read Sarah McCarry's All Our Pretty Songs. It's very well-written, and managed to have a first-person teenage protagonist who did not make me instantly fail out, which is difficult. However, er...the ending was shite. Do not write me an Orpheus story in which people cannot be rescued from the underworld because they are somehow too perfect and precious for this world. No art is that good. If it's supposed to be a metaphor for how rock music and drugs kills and you can't bring people back, then I judge the fuck out of McCarry for bailing on writing some fucking fantasy, which is what she seemed to be doing earlier on. It's not deep, it's just refusing to write about consequences for anyone except the protagonist, which is sketch on a bunch of levels, starting with the fact that it turns the white protagonists' black friends who go to the underworld into a learning experience for her rather than people who got to make choices that mattered to themselves. If you want me to believe that death is better than life, you'd better damn well show it.
Someone come argue with me about this because it was weird and made me cranky.
Something that does not make me cranky are Tripp Tracy being awkward about how he has so many feelings about EStaal because he watched him grow up, and he loves Brind'Amour, but it can never match his love for EStaal because he didn't get to watch him develop. Oh, Tripp. Never change.
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