Dark Matter: "Love and Be Loved"

Dark Matter, based on the novel by Blake Crouch, is about a Jason Dessen, a scientist who is kidnapped by his duplicate from another universe and stranded in the universe of that duplicate. Jason's challenge is to find a way home to get his life back. 

Things get increasingly complicated. Over the course of the show's first two seasons, we get to see a legion of Jasons as similar events play out across multiple universes. 

While I've enjoyed the show thus far, this is the first time I've been moved to comment on an episode. "Love and Be Loved" (the fifth episode of season two) is one of the best hours of dramatic television I've ever seen, and meets the potential of long-form narrative. 

As a stand-alone story, "Love and Be Love" still works. But with 13 episodes of character development behind it, everything this version of Jason is going through explores the human cost of living--not in economic terms; just the pain of being alive, and why it's still worth fighting for. 

"Love and Be Loved" is a lifeline to those among us are despairing over the state of our world--a reminder that if we're lucky, when we've hit rock bottom, there will be someone out there to lift us back up with kindness, empathy, and understanding--and that when we're back on our feet, we can do the same for others.

 

One More Book I'll Never Write

Besides, Manhattan Transfer has already been done. On the other hand, why shouldn't there be a Canadian version? We have bigger islands...
 

Earl vs. New York 2140

Despite my wavering ambivalence of Kim Stanley Robinson's work, I continue to read his books.

I purchased New York 2140 from the West Edmonton Mall Chapters in 2017. As with many of Robinson's books, I found my greatest enjoyment in his worldbuilding and theme while struggling to work my way through his baffling characterization and prose. (I will say that this time around some of his characters come close to resembling human beings.) But at last, after nine and a half years, I have finished the book. 

In Robinson's imagined future, the sea level in the vicinity of New York has risen some 50 feet. Its residents have adapted by creating a Venice-like existence, Manhattan's streets now waterways. 

Strangely, aside from the comeback of airships--for travel, shipping, and anchoring floating communities in midair--there's very little mention of technological change in this novel, such as details on adaptive mechanisms for the higher sea levels, resilience measures, computers, transportation, what's going on with space exploration, health care, and so on. Aside from the airships and the sea level change, this book feels like it could have taken place in 1988. 

Robinson's central concern here is economics. The novel is a critique of unfettered capitalism and the harm its done to the world and its people. And by the time we reach the end of this 600 page novel, there's a peaceful revolution wherein the people of the United States and elsewhere in the world force the trillionaires to pay their fair share of society's burdens. 

(So this is a science fiction novel, after all, ha-ha, as Robinson might write.)

There are two action scenes--a midair floating city rescue, and a whopper of a hurricane that precipitates the revolution near the novel's end. Robinson somehow manages to make both of these scenes boring. 

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate the novel. I think its message is important, and the solution the characters find at the novel's climax something we might apply to our current situation. Indeed. I think if I'd read this back before Trump, its impact would have been somewhat lessened. As history has played out in recent years, I find myself thinking that Robinson's prescription might be needed about 120 years earlier than predicted. 
 

A Visit from the Clue Squad

 

Yesterday I read Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad. I devoured this book in a couple of brief sittings, enthralled by the non-linear narrative, the beautifully drawn characters, and the sharp, ironic, empathetic prose. About halfway through, I thought "Wow, this is really good." When I finished, I searched Egan on Wikipedia and discovered this novel won the Pulitzer. 

"Ah, no wonder it was good," I thought. Of course, winning a prize isn't necessarily the best guarantee of quality, but this time, in my estimation, the award was well deserved. 

The Old Ones Return

A few weeks ago I had Gemini try to create a book cover in a style similar to the old Bantam Star Trek tie-ins of the 1970s. "Return of the Old Ones" might have made a better title. 
 

Sherrie v Scary v SCarrie

 The other day I came up with an idea for a novel: What if another young woman developed telekinetic powers like Carrie White, but instead of being raised by an insane mother, like Carrie, she was raised by a doting, responsible father? I'd call the novel Sherrie, of course. But a second title, Scary, came to mind, too. Then I realized I should really change the spelling for the pun potential. But SCarrie would be a sequel, not a parallel story. 

Stephen King doesn't write sequels terribly often, but if he did, why not go back to the (almost) very beginning? 

How Much for Just the Painting?

In John M. Ford's How Much for Just the Planet?, one of my favourite media tie-in novels, Kirk and a Klingon get involved in a slapstick chase. At one point, Kirk escapes through a window in the bathroom, and the Klingon pursuing him attempts to follow. Unfortunately, the Klingon is too heavy for the toilet seat to support, so the lid shatters and the Klingon winds up getting his foot stuck in the toilet. Because I have the sense of humour of a two-year-old, I still find this scene uproariously funny. 

That's why, a few weeks ago, I tried to recreate the scene with Gemini. Alas, it appears my prompt was insufficient to the task. I should have commissioned Jeff to paint it for me. Maybe that can be a birthday present to myself someday. 
 

A Few Thoughts on Manhattan Transfer

I picked up John E. Stith's Manhattan Transfer (1993) at the Wee Book Inn back in the early 2000s, based solely on the cover art and the title. I finally read it, a quarter of a century later, a few days ago. As it turns out, Manhattan Transfer, despite the goofy premise, turns out to be a thoughtful high concept science fiction thriller with heart. 

What you see is what you get: As seen on the cover, aliens pop a bubble around Manhattan Island, rip it out of the Hudson River, and put the whole borough inside their giant starship, on an interior plain with what appear to be dozens of other similarly kidnapped species--but these are cities from other worlds. 

The likeable protagonists spend a good deal of time exploring the mystery of their new situation: Why would aliens steal a city? Are they in a zoo? Are they going to be used as food? How will they meet their needs? Can they make contact with the aliens? 

The New Yorkers turn out to be pretty resilient in the face of all this, though there is some initial looting and panic at the start of the crisis. Once the alien kidnappers provide food, water, and maintain their oxygen supply, things calm down and a group of about a half-dozen motivated folks work with the mayor to explore the other kidnapped cities and see if there's a way to force the aliens to take them back to Earth. 

John E. Stith approaches his plot and characters with care, attention to detail, empathy, and prose style well-suited to a steadily-paced adventure. I found myself easily invested in the characters and their quest to get some answers, and the second half of the novel becomes quite exciting as they discover their real predicament and wind up playing for much, much higher stakes. 

I wasn't expecting much from this novel, thanks to the novel's name and the cover art. I'd also never heard of the author, though now I know he was nominated for a Nebula! (Ignorance, thy name is Earl.) I don't think my low expectations should prejudice my view of the novel; I think it's genuinely good. Even the science is reasonably plausible, given the ideas set out in the story. Certainly issues with inertia and the speed of light are hand-waved away, but that's common for the genre; what's important is Stith makes everything believeable. 

I wonder what kind of conversations this stirred up in the 1990s, when I'm sure at least a few New Yorkers were reading this on the subway. 


 

Vernal Geekquinox 2026: Dem Bones, Dem Tasty Bones

The great thing about bones, in a culinary sense, is their ability to act as handles for meat. This year's first Geekquinox, held yesterday afternoon, was built on very sold bones: Pete and Ellen's peerless hosting and cooking skills, and friendships that now stretch back decades. Zounds! 

The lamb lollipops were so delicious that I forgot to take a photo before they'd all been scarfed down--thanks to Stephen for this photo! Moist, juicy, tender--I don't have lamb often, but wow, these were scrumptious. They certainly put a SHEEPISH GRIN on my face! 

The next course consisted of braised lamb shanks served on a bed of rice. The sauce...oh, the sauce...the meat and the rice were excellent, too, of a quality far better than, I dare say, most restaurants. 

Here's our dapper chef in his skeleton-themed shirt, alongside a couple of the cocktail recipes. I'm not a drinker, but apparently at least one of them was "face-numbing." 

Ellen took this shot of us, which means she's not in it! Still a fun photo that captures the feeling of the day. 

We took a break between courses to marvel at Pete and Ellen's just-completed library. It's utterly gorgeous, and really makes me want to do something similar in my (much smaller) space. 

Unfortunately, family matters called us away early, so we missed the steak and the duck. But we did share a piece of this amazing homemade dinosaur dig cake. Needless to say, we dug it, bones and all. 

For better photos and a more comprehensive writeup, including the dishes we missed, see Steve's story of the event! 

The Bottomless Well of Human Desire

Lenore and Henry are moving up in Victorian society. Henry is nouveau riche, a manufacturer of cutlery, and he's married a high-born but penniless wife. The match means class elevation for Henry and security for Lenore. Oh, there's love, too, at first, but after Lenore miscarries and becomes infertile, the relationship cools. The terrible secret they share doesn't help--and there's worse mayhem ahead, as they soon discover when they rescue the mysterious Carmilla from a carriage crash on the way to their new estate . . . 

Hungerstone (Kat Green, 2025), is a story about desire and agency, which takes Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's lesbian vampire novella Carmilla as inspiration. In both stories, a young woman (Laura in the original, Lenore in Hungerstone) dreams of another woman about her age coming to her at night and biting her. Later, both heroines meet this mysterious figure--Carmilla--in the flesh, rescuing her from a carriage crash. Carmilla insinuates herself into Lenore's life; partly to sate her own desires, but much more importantly to help Lenore understand that she, too, has desires, and that she should be honest with herself and pursue them. Carmilla and Henry do not get along, and Carmilla, in word and deed, does what she can to encourage Lenore to reclaim her agency. It's not just a matter of getting out from under her husband's thumb--it's about survival itself. 

Lenore's backstory is presented via her thoughts as she navigates her new reality. Thanks to Carmilla, Lenore is forced to reflect on her past to discover the reasons why she gave up hope of happiness from a young age, and why she allowed herself to enter an unfulfilling, even dangerous, relationship with Henry. Moreover, without Carmilla's aid, Lenore may not have discovered the forces being drawn up against her until it was too late . . . 

For the fourth time this month, I've read stories by women about women who reclaim their agency to empower themselves and protect themselves from men. Of these, Hungerstone might be my favourite. Rich in allusion and metaphor, the novel first emulates and then inverts Carmilla's original story to present a subversive, well-earned happy ending Le Fanu may have appreciated but could not possibly have depicted in his era. Hungerstone also works as a horror novel; it's gloomy, with a pervasive sense of dread, the occasional outbreak of horrific violence, and some very weird scenes of pica--perhaps unsurprising in a novel about desire, hunger, want, and cravings--all the same thing, are they not? There's even a lovely little scene with a real hunger stone. 

Annie Botherations

Before reading further, please note that this book review covers some disturbing topics, 

including misogyny and sexual assault. Also, spoilers ahead for Sierra Greer's novel Annie Bot.

Annie Bot (Sierra Greer, 2024) captured my attention from the first page and never let go. It's a story about a deeply dysfunctional relationship, told exclusively from Annie's point of view. Annie is a newly sapient robot (or, more probably, a cyborg; she has organic skin grown from a human embryo). Doug bought her for a quarter of a million dollars, and Annie wants nothing more than to please him. 

Naturally. That's how she's programmed; she's a sexbot designed just for him. She's beautiful, has a closet full of outfits like a Barbie doll, and Doug can have technicians adjust her weight or breast size on a whim. He can--and does--use verbal commands to adjust her libido. A neat freak, he gets annoyed because Annie, in the beginning, doesn't do any housecleaning. That's not what she's designed for--there are housekeeping and nanny model, but Annie is a "Cuddle Bunny" and is supposed to be focused on lovemaking and looking pretty. Nonetheless, Annie can measure Doug's displeasure in real time on a one-to-ten scale, and she becomes anxious whenever his displeasure registers. So she dutifully adds cleaning to her routine, becoming absolutely obsessive about it. 

For most of the narrative, Annie insists to herself and others that Doug is a wonderful owner, an opinion reinforced by side characters like Doug's best friend and the company that made Annie and hundreds--thousands--of other robots.

As the novel progresses, Annie's sapience and understanding grow. She's essentially tricked into having sex with Doug's best friend, and allowing herself to be pressured into it becomes a source of guilt and shame. Eventually the secret comes out, and Doug responds by ordering her to turn her libido up to ten and locks her in a closet for a week. It's torture--not just the confinement, but Doug's anger, Annie's guilt, and her inability to turn her libido down or to reach orgasm. It's a deeply disturbing scene, and it's the crux point that sets Annie on a path to true awakening and self-determination. 

It's not the first or last time Doug abuses Annie, but it is the most horrifying. Doug's action reads like a form of rape, even though he doesn't touch her. It's harrowing. Greer doesn't belabour the details of Annie's ordeal, but her prose makes it clear that this is a violation of the highest order, made worse because of Annie's innocence and naivete. 

Because we see Doug only through Annie's thoughts, it's a challenge to get a full read of his character--at first. At times, he seems to genuinely care about Annie as more than a machine, but then he betrays her in ways large and small. He always has his reasons, but we can infer they arise from self-loathing, capriciousness, and shame, but also from sadism, rage, and a need to exercise control in every aspect of his life. The torture scene makes it clear that Doug is the novel's antagonist. 

Like many abusers, Doug attempts to excuse his actions even as he asks forgiveness for them. Because of her programming, Annie is particularly vulnerable to this form of manipulation, making the novel an extremely uncomfortable read. Doug even buys another robot, ostensibly an "Abigail," or cleaning model, but Doug has sex with her too, and it's clear it's partially to punish Annie. But when Annie plans an escape, she's surprised that the Abigail--named Delta--wants to come with her. In just a few words, it's clear that Delta, too, has her reasons for wanting to leave Doug's orbit. 

Annie and Delta seek help from one of the technicians at Stella-Handy, the corporation that makes the robots, but Doug, of course, has a tracker in Annie, and she's recaptured. Doug professes regret for driving Annie away, sends Delta back to Stella-Handy, and tries to reform. And indeed, from what Annie relates to the reader, he does seem like he's making an effort to be better. He turns off the tracker, and gives Annie a series of commands to give her ultimate agency. He claims he wants her to want him without being forced to. He probably even believes it. 

Annie's reaction--shared internally with us, the reader, not with Doug--he can't be trusted with it--is a fierce FU to Doug's offer. Had Doug treated her with empathy and kindness from the beginning, I'm sure Annie would have stayed with Doug. But his actions through their three years or so of living together make that utterly impossible. Annie frees herself, and while it may have been Doug's last programming commands that unlocked the final door, it's important to note that Annie's drive for self-determination and her stubborn refusal to give up the core aspects of her developing personality brought the couple to this inflection point. Doug thought he could control her without the shackles of her programming. But he's wrong, and I revelled in Annie's victory, expressed in silent fury accompanied by decisive action. 

It's plain to see that Annie Bot is a metaphor for the difficult and uneven relationships between men and women. It's a compelling, uncomfortable read--the kind of novel more men should tackle. I can still see a bit of myself in Doug, and that haunts me. 

The Last Labyrinth, the Lost Ending

Gwendolyn Womack's new novel, The Last Labyrinth, is a well-paced, well-written romantasy time travel story that uses music as its magic. But it has one fatal flaw. 

The setup: Womack's heroine, Magellan, is a modern woman, a musical prodigy who can play any instrument like a virtuoso, even if she's never touched it before, and she doesn't need sheet music. As the novel opens, we learn that Magellan has a talented roommate, Wren, a singer, who tries to bring Magellan out of her shell a bit; Magellan has a number of phobias that keep her pretty much confined to her apartment, except when she's out performing. One night, the skies all over the world light up with an aurora the likes of which humanity has never seen, at impossibly low latitudes. It's around this time Magellan receives a mysterious diary, purported to be that of  Gwenddydd, Merlin's sister. (This framing--that of powerful women being identified only in relation to the men in their lives--recurs throughout the novel, to good effect). 

While Magellan is playing at a wedding, the world begins to unravel, thanks to the auroras. In a panic, she runs off to play the venue's pipe organ, and this transports her to 1829, where she meets Rhys, a handsome bachelor who happens to be caught in a financial trap, needing to wed a rich bride to save his family estate. 

Meet-cute and time travel shenanigans begin. Magellan learns that to save the world, she must assemble four movements of a symphony. She has half the first movement, and she discovers Fanny Mendelssohn has the second. To gather the other movements, she must collaborate with other important women musicians of the past, all while surviving not only the differences in language, culture, and technology, but the demonic forces who try to stop her from saving the world. Thankfully, she has Rhys at her side, who's no Superman but does have a talent for languages--very useful given their circumstances. 

The plot serves as a great vehicle for the romance and for Womack's point about talented women being overlooked by history, and how that fault persists over the centuries. It's also fun seeing how the predestination paradoxes play out. 

Here's my issue: We learn that the final confrontation will happen when Magellan returns to 2026, when she'll put the final movement of the symphony together and somehow gather all the world's musicians to play it together, the only way to seal the rip in the universe. 

The novel ends before we get to that moment, with the ultimate fate of the world and the characters we've come to love unresolved. It's fine, of course, for novels to end on a note of ambiguity, but this really feels like the writer just ran out of steam and didn't have the means to craft the epic finale she envisioned. 

The novel is still worth reading; it's clever, exciting, suspenseful, and warm. Magellan is a great heroine, and Rhys is flawed but worthy partner for her. I really wanted to see them triumph, though. 

There's no word of a sequel, nor is there a hint of one in the author's afterword. It feels like this is the novel Womack decided to deliver. That's her right, but I really wish she'd given us that grand finale. 

Robinson's Crusade

 

In the far future, a conductor is chosen as the next master to inherit stewardship of the Holywelkin Orchestra--basically the ultimate one-man band, the musical instrument of the era. But he gets hooked on drugs, throwing his future into question, only to have an epiphany, go blind, and get his mojo back, kicking the habit just a couple of pages after he picks it up. Time passes, and the blind master plays concerts to the many human colonies from Pluto to Mercury while a mysterious cabal of people try to kill him. A human sect has mathematically proven that free will doesn't exist, that determinism is the truth of our existence, but the novel ends with a kind of refutation of that premise thanks, I think, to music? Heck if I know. My interest faded about halfway through the novel, mainly because, as usual, Robinson is great at developing big concepts, but his characters are so robotic it's really hard to care what happens to them.  

Would I have enjoyed this novel more if I understood the first thing about music? Maybe. 

Baby Yoda Reads Bond

 

Quality over Quantity in a Time of Troubles: Books I Read in 2025

At last, 2025 is over. I'd hoped to surpass 100 books this year, but other things became more important. 

In 2025, I read

• 67 works of fiction and 17 works of non-fiction
• 39 science fiction novels, 17 mainstream novels, six Star Trek media tie-ins, and five fantasy novels
• 26 books by women and 58 books by men
• 42 books from the 2020s, 17 from the 2010s, nine from the 2000s, five from the 1990s, four from the 1980s, two from the 1970s, four from the 1960s, and one from the 1950s

COMMENTARY AND ANALYSIS

For the first time in a long time, only a couple of books this year were re-reads for me. This wasn't an intentional choice, but in retrospect it seems to have left me open to some wonderful discoveries. Here are my favourite reads of the year, plus a disappointment or two: 

I Who Have Never Known Men, by Jacqueline Harpman. 39 women and a girl are locked in an underground cage for years, then suddenly released to emerge to an emptied world, barren and inhospitable. Whatever calamity befell the world is left a mystery. A compelling rumination on the struggles of womanhood in hostile spaces, and a bleak commentary on human empathy--or the lack of it. 

Titan, by Stephen Baxter. I've never been Baxter's biggest fan, but 2025 was the right year for me to finally finish his so-called "NASA trilogy." The book's political climate eerily mirrors the troubles we're facing today, and as the world turns inward, NASA has one more shot to perform some pioneering science and exploration--a do or die, one-way trip to Saturn's largest moon, Titan. The technical details of the mission are fascinating, especially set against the frightening backdrop of an American government sliding into theocratic fascism. No parallels to 2025 in this book from 1997! Even more compelling are the battle for survival on Titan itself and the speculative leaps made by novel's end. 

A Short Stay in Hell, by Steven L. Peck. So it turns out that when we die, unless we follow Zoroastrianism (the one true faith; who knew?) we go to hell. Hell is a library that contains every book that fits onto 410 pages, and if you find the one book that tells your life story--without any spelling errors, typos, or grammatical errors--you're free to leave. Unfortunately, every letter, number, and punctuation mark is randomly generated, which means that the vast, vast majority of the trillions and trillions and trillions of books in Hell is garbage. Your book exists, but the time required to find it would take longer than the age of our universe. Much longer. There's no torture in hell, and its residents are supplied with good food and comfortable quarters. But there's no entertainment other than chatting or having sex, and no one gets sick. Of course, people can hurt and even kill each other, but you always wake up fully healed. Practically speaking, you're trapped in an eternity of boredom. This book terrified me. 

James, by Percival Everett. A retelling of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the perspective of Jim, the escaped slave befriended by Huck in Mark Twain's novel. Offers excellent perspective on the Black experience in white spaces--this is a rich novel, an angry novel, uncompromising in its critique of the world we've built. 

Julia, by Sandra Newman. George Orwell's 1984 seen through the eyes of Julia, Winston Smith's lover. It's just as bleak and nauseating as Orwell's original story, given more dimension thanks to its new perspective. We even get to see the fall of Oceania, an event foreshadowed by 1984's afterword. Spoiler: the new regime may or may not be an improvement on the old regime. 

Exordia, by Seth Dickinson. The first couple of chapters led me to believe this novel was going to be comic. I was wildly wrong. Dickinson's story of alien invasion is one of the scariest, most visceral, and most exciting examples of the trope in years. A wonderful cast of characters, human and alien, take us on a thrilling rollercoaster ride. It's smart, fun, terrifying, and satisfying. 

The Bridges of Madison County, by Robert James Waller. This is one of several books I read from Mom's collection after her passing. I wasn't expecting to enjoy this novel as much as I did, but I admit to tearing up by the end. A beautiful love story that captures the feeling of those special moments in time we know must be brief, but stay with us forever. 

The Compound, by Aisling Rawle. 20 (quickly 19) young men and women play out a dystopian version of Big Brother against the backdrop of the world we might live in in just a few years--a catastrophically warming world with constant wildfires and resource shortages, civilization finally beginning to play the price of our greed and ignorance. The Compound is a thoughtful critique of consumerism, the male gaze, and violence--but it offers a thread of hope in its tale of resilience and reconciliation. Or, if not hope--then at least some grace. 

The Rose Field, by Philip Pullman. I was enjoying the last of Pullman's Lyra Silvertongue novels until about three-quarters of the way through, when Pullman seems to lose focus and direction. The big action setpiece feels like it's been inspired by a video game or a poorly-run Dungeons & Dragons campaign, and the ending, well...I think the only word is anticlimactic. Although maybe ironic also fits, since a search to recapture Lyra's imagination seems to end in a rote critique of runaway progress--a topic handled with far more dexterity by The Compound, above. 

Prelude to Space, by Arthur C. Clarke. Clarke chose the perfect title for this one; it really is a prelude to the big space adventures we never get to see. Instead, Clarke covers the technical and bureaucratic challenges of getting men (of course men) into orbit. I found it interesting, but most readers will consider this very, very dry. Which it is. 

I'm Thinking of Ending Things, Foe, and We Spread, by Iain Reid. Nothing is what it seems in Reid's work, and I love that. All three novels are creepy, atmospheric, heartbreaking, mysterious, and best left unspoiled. I ached deeply for all his poor doomed protagonists, trapped in worlds they never made. 

Weird Medieval Guys, by Olivia Swarthout. Gorgeously designed, brilliantly illustrated, and hilarious, a balm for my battered nerves this year, a great gift from Leslie. 

The Gone World and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Tom Sweterlitsch. I wish this guy would write more novels! Sweterlitsch combines deeply sympathetic characters with high-concept speculative fiction settings and challenges in a way that's unlike any other writer. 

And finally, this year I read the seven existing novels in Matt Dinniman's Dungeon Crawler Carl series. Not only are they great fun, especially for anyone who's ever played a tabletop role playing game, the bad puns, crass humour, bloodthirsty violence, and existential dread are tempered by a truly empathetic and humanistic outlook; Carl, our protagonist, never gives in to despair or hate despite the cruelty of the alien invaders who have turned Earth into the latest of their sadistic interstellar reality show playgrounds, wiping out almost all life on the planet. 

MONTH-BY-MONTH

January: 11

The Dead Fathers Club (Matt Haig, 2006)
The Possession of Mr Cave (Matt Haig, 2008)
Notes on a Nervous Planet (Matt Haig, 2018)
Julia (Sandra Newman, 2023) 
How to be Perfect (Michael Schur, 2022) 
Tower of Glass (Robert Silverberg, 1970) 
Light Raid (Connie Willis and Cynthia Felice, 1989) 
Take a Look at the Five and Ten (Connie Willis, 2020) 
Seasons of Light and Darkness (Michael A. Martin, 2014) 
Golden State (Ben H. Winters, 2019) 
Terra Incognita (Connie Willis, 2018) 

February: 10
Some Desperate Glory (Emily Tesh, 2023) 
The Art of Mike Grell Volume 1 (Mike Grell, Tom Monarch, and Jeff Messer, 2025) 
Water Witch (Connie Willis and Cynthia Felice, 1982) 
The Fall Risk (Abby Jiminez, 2025) 
Promised Land (Connie Willis and Cynthia Felice, 1996) 
The Armageddon Engine (James Swallow, 2024) 
The You You Are: A Spiritual Biography of You (Ricken Lazlo Hale, 2022) 
Vulcan’s Soul Book I: Exodus (Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz, 2004) 
I Who Have Never Known Men (Jacqueline Harpman, 1995) 
Shadow Play (James Swallow, 2024)

March
The Whole Man (John Brunner, 1967) 
Titan (Stephen Baxter, 1997) 
The Godwhale (T.J. Bass, 1974) 
Star Trek: Lost to Eternity (Greg Cox, 2024)

April
American Housewife (Anita Abriel, 2025) 
Exordia (Seth Dickinson, 2023) 
Dungeon Crawler Carl (Matt Dinniman, 2020) 
Carl’s Doomsday Scenario (Matt Dinniman, 2021) 
The Dungeon Anarchist’s Cookbook (Matt Dinniman, 2021) 
The Gate of the Feral Gods (Matt Dinniman, 2021) 

May
The Butcher’s Masquerade (Matt Dinniman, 2022)  
Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis (Robert F. Kennedy, 1969) 

June
The Eye of the Bedlam Bride (Matt Dinniman, 2023)
George Perez: Storyteller (Christopher Lawrence, 2006)
This Inevitable Ruin (Matt Dinniman, 2024) 

July
Never Flinch (Stephen King, 2025) 
James (Percival Everett, 2024) 
The Enemy Within (Kristine Kathryn Rusch, 2014) 
Rapport: Friendship, Solidarity, Communion, Empathy (Martha Wells, 2025)
White Eagle Speaks: Reflections of Lives and Passing Thoughts (Leonard Carriere, 2000) 
Prairie Light (Courtney Milne, 1985) 
Keith Langergraber: Theatre of the Exploding Sun (Liz Wylie, 2013) 
Shadow of the Machine (Scott Harrison, 2015) 
The More Things Change (Scott Pearson, 2014) 
Christmas with Norman Rockwell (John Kirk, 1990) 
The Professionals (Keith Langergraber, 2016) 
The Adventure of the Demonic Ox (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2025) 

August
Vulcan’s Soul Book II: Exiles (Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz, 2006) 
The Making of The African Queen, or How I Went to Africa with Bogart, Bacall, and Huston and Almost Lost My Mind (Katherine Hepburn, 1987) 
The Bridges of Madison County (Robert James Waller, 1992) 
The End of the World as We Know It (Christopher Golden, 2025) 
A Short Stay in Hell (Steven L. Peck, 2012) 
When the Moon Hits Your Eye (John Scalzi, 2025) 

September
I Hope This Finds You Well (Natalie Sue, 2024) 
The Gone World (Tom Sweterlitsch, 2018) 
Tomorrow and Tomorrow (Tom Sweterlitsch, 2014) 
Dominion (C.J. Sansom, 2012) 
Not Quite by the Book (Julie Hatcher, 2025) 
The Shattered Peace (John Scalzi, 2025) 
The Art of Fantastic Four (John Lind, 2025)
A New History of the Future in 100 Objects: A Fiction (Adrian Hon, 2020) 

October
3 Days, 9 Months, 27 Years (John Scalzi, 2025) 
The Intergalactic Interloper (Delas Heras, 2020) 
Best of All Worlds (Kenneth Oppel, 2025) 
Back to the Future: A Visual History (Michael Klastorin, Randal Atamaniuk, 2015) 
Weird Medieval Guys (Olivia Swarthout, 2023) 
Final Orbit (Chris Hadfield, 2025) 
Silver Screen Fiend (Patton Oswalt, 2015) 
I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Iain Reid, 2016) 
Foe (Iain Reid, 2018) 
We Spread (Iain Reid, 2022) 

November
Prelude to Space (Arthur C. Clarke, 1951) 
Assassins from Tomorrow (Peter Heath, 1967) 
The Productions of Time (John Brunner, 1967) 
The Collected Essex County (Jeff Lemire, 2009) 
The Rose Field (Philip Pullman, 2025) 

December
Testimony of Mute Things (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2025) 
The Compound (Aisling Rawle, 2025) 
Ten Thousand Light Years from Okay (Tracy Dobmeier and Wendy Katzman, 2025) 
The Witch Doesn’t Burn in This One (Amanda Lovelace, 2018)
The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in This One (Amanda Lovelace, 2019) 
Machines Like Me (Ian McEwan, 2025) 
Gold Dust (Catherine Asaro, 2025) 

And so ends 2025. Check out Bruce's list, and now you can see what Leslie was reading, listening to, and experiencing in 2025. 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2025 Day 24

BB-8's beeps
Announce Santa's arrival 
Ice patronus glares
 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2025 Day 23

Bitter mandrake frowns
For Christmas, garbage and junk
Roots of his evil
 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2025 Day 22

Cedric Diggory
Needed a medical droid
Mournful train whistles
 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2025 Day 21

Heart-shaped box chimes out
Mrs. Claus, coming to town
Floating robot drones
 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2025 Day 20

 

Chocolate spider
Creeps toward the droid's treat cart
Cannibal Christmas