2016 in books, numbers, and feelings

For the last few years now I’ve been doing this roundup: I talk about what I read and how I read it over the past year, the demographics of the authors I read (adding a disclaimer because obviously these numbers are always going to be inaccurate and these categories too crude) and resolve to do better next year.

So let’s get that over with: I read (as near as I can make out) 81 books in 2016, 60 (see previous parentheses) were by women or other not-cis-male authors, 36 (ditto) were by authors who weren’t white. My PhD thesis has doubtless contributed to this, especially as I haven’t been counting academic criticism; the Carnegie shortlist, once again, turned out to be entirely composed of white authors (and British children’s publishing seems to be determinedly forging ahead on this path)–I may try to read the Jhalak prize longlist this year in order to balance things out.

For the Strange Horizons year in review piece I recommended Wheatle’s Crongton Knights, N.K. Jemisin’s The Obelisk Gate, Sana Takeda and Marjorie Liu’s Monstress, Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement, Helen Oyeyemi’s What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours, and Joan Aiken’s The People in the Castle. Non-SF-adjacent things I thought particularly good included both new books in Robin Stevens’s Wells and Wong series, Alice Pung’s Laurinda, and Sarah Moss’s The Tidal Zone (of which more below).

I also wrote some things this year, though not many. Here’s a review at Strange Horizons, here’s a roundtable on South Asian folklore and myth. All other (nonacademic) writing is on this blog– I was quite pleased with my grumpy Carnegie reviews over the summer.

All that said, it has been a resoundingly shit year, both globally and personally, and it’s been harder than ever to think critically or usefully or non-despairingly about anything.

A good way into The Tidal Zone there’s this:

May we forget. It is a pity that the things we learn in crisis are all to be found on fridge magnets and greetings cards: seize the day, savour the moment, tell your love–May we live long enough to despise the clichés again, may we heal enough to take for granted sky and water and light, because the state of blind gratitude for breath and blood is not a position of intelligence.

The Tidal Zone is almost hilariously on the nose for 2016–had it been less good I’d have rolled my eyes at it a bit. But (despite the fact that we’re both academics of one sort or another I have nothing in common with its protagonist and his situation) this. I’ve struggled to think past the most instinctual feelings this year, and given that the world doesn’t seem like it’s getting better in the near future, that is something I (and many of us) am going to have to learn to negotiate. Last year I said that my struggle for 2016 would be to balance kindness and anger–I underestimated how hard that would be. When everything in the world feels vulnerable it’s hard to feel more than a sort of panicked tenderness, that is conducive neither to good criticism nor to actually making things better.

The struggle continues, I suppose.

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