Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

7/10-score years ago, when Seth Grahame-Smith published Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, I was in my first year of parenthood, transitioning to my new career as a Teacher Librarian, and less engaged in the world of horror fiction. As a result, I completely dismissed the novel as a frivolous cash-grab meant for a less-literary audience. Fourteen years later, I am happy to admit that I was (mostly) wrong in my prejudiced estimation of the book.

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is a truly immersive reading experience, replete with footnotes, citations, and "vintage" illustrations embedded in its 336 pages. Writing in an academic style that mimics Ron Chernow, Jon Krakauer, or even Malcolm Gladwell, Grahame-Smith fabricates an alternate history of the United States in which the sixteenth president of the United States fought nobly against the army of the Confederacy and a legion of the undead.

And it's just as wonderfully bizarre as it sounds.

Meticulously researched (or so it appears), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter offers plenty of United States history to contextualize the fictional "reality" of 1800s-era bloodsuckers. Grahame-Smith traces the lineage of these American undead back to the original colonial settlements in Jamestown, Virginia (including a clever twist on the missing Roanoke Colony); from there, the author crafts a horror tale that's as thoroughly entrenched in American history as it is with vampire lore. Imagine a cross between Grady Hendrix and Bill Bryson , and you're somewhere in the general vicinity of this novel. Don't quote me on this (because I'm an English teacher who doesn't have an in-depth base of historical knowledge regarding Lincoln's life), but it appears as if Grahame-Smith has really done his homework. Even if he's playing fast and loose with the facts, his writing is convincing enough to make the reader believe that he's earned his US history merit badge

Unfortunately, after the clever novelty of a fictional textbook biography wears off, the novel gets bogged down in historical minutiae. At the expense of a fluid, engaging narrative, the author overcompensates with Easter eggs to appease the hardcore Lincoln aficionados out there. While it might sound strange to describe a book about hunting vampires as "tedious," Grahame-Smith somehow manages to pull off that designation. However, even at its most tiresome, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter still deserves credit for what it does well: clever world-building with a meticulous mythology.

Despite his imperfections, Grahame-Smith has piqued my interest enough that I'm going to sink my fangs into this novel's sequel, The Last American Vampire. I appreciated the twist at the end of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (a plot point that many readers will predict, and many others will dislike), and I'm invested enough to read more about Lincoln's vampire friend/mentor/Jedi master. Seth Grahame-Smith has achieved an impressive feat with Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, creating an American breed of nosferatu that departs enough from Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer to whet readers' appetite with fresh blood.

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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What is there to say about Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone that hasn't already been said? J.K. Rowling invented a new world (and, essentially, a new genre) when she released this book almost three decades ago; since then, the franchise has embedded itself into the cultural zeitgeist speedier than a Golden Snitch and with more fiery force than a Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon. Because I was already college-aged when the series hit the United States, I missed the first wave of Potter-mania; it wasn't until my older daughter was in elementary school that I finally took my first train to Hogwarts. But, from that initial encounter, I was hooked.

I recently finished rereading Sorcerer's Stone with a fresh set of eyes, and I have to say that the book holds up from a more objective, clinical, and discerning literary perspective. Rowling is a master of world-building, crafting whole (fictional) histories, cultures, and creatures as effortlessly as a "Wingardium Leviosa" spell. She is almost as adept at character development, providing story arcs that subvert expectations and mimic the complexities of the "real" (Muggle) world. From the red herring Snape/Quirrell switcheroo to the surprise first appearance of Voldemort, Rowling truly worked some (*ahem*) magic with her debut novel.

My only major complaint is with the pacing of the first section of Sorcerer's Stone. When I read aloud the opening chapter of the book for a "First-Chapter Friday" story time with my younger daughter's fourth-grade class, it took a full thirty minutes to make it all the way through. Needless to say, I was out of breath by the end - like a star Seeker after a tough Quidditch match. Likewise, the length of the initial exposition feels slower than molasses: it isn't until chapter five that we break out of the tedious Dursley domain and enter, wide-eyed, into Diagon Alley, hop through Platform 9 3/4, and (finally) arrive at Hogwarts. I only wish I had an "Accio Chapter Six" spell to breeze through the beginning and get to the good stuff.

Though Rowling has been in the news of late because of her "TERF" politics, she is more Snape than Voldemort: well-intentioned, but damaging, just the same. Can we separate the artist from the art? I don't have an answer to that rhetorical question. All I know is that Rowling created a once-in-a-generation mythology. However, it's a (wizarding) world that no longer belongs to her, but to her fans. And, in light (Lumos?) of Rowling's complicated politics, will those fans still hold a fondness in their hearts for the sweet nostalgia of Harry and his cohort? The answer is, like Snape later says at a key moment in the franchise, "Always."

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How to Survive a Horror Movie by Seth Grahame-Smith
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2

Although I've been shelving Seth Grahame-Smith's books for years now, I never got around to reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies or Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. However, since I was between books this week, I figured I would give How to Survive a Horror Movie a shot - and I'm glad that I did.

Seth Grahame-Smith has an encyclopedic knowledge of horror history and spooky cinema, and a wit more biting than a vampire's fangs. In How to Survive a Horror Movie, the author lovingly lampoons classics like The Exorcist, The Shining, Dracula, Frankenstein, and Poltergeist; along the twisted trail of this book, he also touches upon a variety of tried-and-true horror franchises, including Halloween, Friday the 13th, Alien, and Scream. With grim gusto, Grahame-Smith puts the "fan" in FANatic and FANtastic: his love for horror bleeds through every page (pun intended). To the great joy of fellow aficionados, there are more eerie Easter eggs here than in any bunny's blood-soaked basket.

However, while Grahame-Smith is clearly a a devotee of this dark genre, he also recognizes the many predictable tropes, pitfalls, and idiosyncrasies of his beloved horror films. As such, much of this irreverent metafiction book is written with tongue planted firmly in cheek. With melodramatic flourish, the author discusses everything from haunted houses to possessed vehicles to killer dolls, ultimately culminating in a chapter about facing off against the Devil himself. The humor does start to wear thin about halfway through this brief book, but the author's clever insight helps circumvent the feeling that he's beating an un-dead horse into tedious oblivion.

In the appendix, Grahame-Smith offers a curated list of recommended horror films, surveying every important horror film of the last sixty years. The list of titles is a great starting point for novice moviegoers who want to dig deep into the graveside soil of cinematic history. This alone makes the book a worthwhile read.

As a horror geek, I was thoroughly delighted and entertained by How to Survive a Horror Movie. Casual horror fans, however, might want to skip this in favor of a book with more substance. While Grahame-Smith's tongue is sharper than Van Helsing's wooden stakes, his litany of attributes discussed in the "Terrorverse" can feel more like Herman Munster than Mary Shelley's monster.

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Paper Towns by John Green
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Part treasure hunt, part coming-of-age narrative, and part criticism of patriarchal society, Paper Towns is an absolute treat. Devouring this book in just a few days, I was reminded of how much I enjoy John Green's writing. It's been over a decade since I read Looking for Alaska, The Fault in Our Stars, and Let it Snow. The last time I tackled Green, he had just released Turtles All the Way Down - which, despite being well-crafted, is probably my least favorite of his books. Nevertheless, with his heartfelt storylines, John Green is always reliably clever, comedic, and earnest (sometimes to a fault... in our stars). And, with Paper Towns, he absolutely shines.

In Paper Towns, Green provides us with an atypical mystery tale wrapped in a riddle, encased in an enigma - and embodied by a teenage girl. Our narrator, Quentin Jacobsen, has a problem: Margo Roth Spiegelman, the enchanting girl-next-door, has vanished, leaving our nerdy protagonist heartbroken and curious (Curiously heartbroken? Heartbrokenly curious?). After an all-night episode of pranks and revenge schemes, Quentin (or "Q," as Margo dubs him) has fallen deeper in love with Margo than ever before. However, when she vanishes the next day, Quentin and his classmates must reevaluate everything they knew (or thought they knew) about the infamous Margo.

Before I continue, I should address the elephant in the room: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) trope, that unrealistic depiction of female characters who take control of a story's narrative. Think Zooey Deschanel's character in 500 Days of Summer or Natalie Portman's character in Garden State, and you get the gist. According to Nathan Rabin, the writer who coined the phrase, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl "exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures." However, it isn't just film directors/screenwriters who employ this trope; rather, it's any fiction writer who decides to craft the perfect embodiment of his/her/their fantasies.

Green, much to his credit, earnestly tries to dispel this spellbinding myth. When we first encounter Margo, she appears to be the definitive MPDG - a quirky, brilliant, and beautiful young woman whose primary purpose is to serve as the catalyst for our protagonist's self-actualization. However, as Green takes us through the voyage of Paper Towns, he disassembles and deconstructs this trope, bit by mysterious bit. As he perfectly summarizes at one point, “What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.” Paper Towns is dedicated to this mystery: uncovering the "real" person underneath the paper-thin clothing of society's unrealistic expectations.

As John Green shows in Paper Towns, even the most seemingly "perfect" individuals are deeply flawed mirages - and to assume elsewise is an unintentionally cruel act. Margo, who shares DNA with the titular Alaska in Green's first novel, is a vibrant, vivacious, preternaturally intelligent superhero of hotness in the eyes of our male narrator. Yet, as Quentin continues his quest for Margo, like Ahab in pursuit of Moby-Dick (Green references Moby-Dick or, The Whale over and over in this book), he slowly realizes that Margo Roth Spiegelman (whose initials spell MRS) has more in common with the White Whale than Ahab or Ishmael.

It's been a few years since I've read anything from Green's catalog, but I'm glad that I've returned to his roadmap for YA success. Even if Paper Towns is flawed, it is flawed in an almost endearing way. I was half-inspired to finally read this novel because of its tentative link to Peng Shepherd's mediocre The Cartographers and the quirky history of the town of Agloe. Green's incorporation of the Agloe story is far more effective than Shepherd's, and it's hard to avoid comparisons to the two tales.

Weirdly enough, I finished reading Paper Towns the day before I watched Yorgos Lanthimos's Poor Things - another piece of art that attempts to dispel cultural myths about femininity and addresses identity ownership, bodily autonomy, and the male gaze. The two works, coupled as a duet, provide a fascinating (if not painfully clinical) examination of womanhood and the mysteries of the female world - mysteries that are much more important and meaningful than any Sherlock Holmes whodunnit tale.

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