Round 2, Match 2: Kat, Incorrigible vs. A Face Like Glass

2_2Judged by Hallie • find her on Goodreads

The pairing I got for my match both surprised me and made me very happy, for several reasons. One of these is Beth’s choice to focus on underappreciated books, and my belief that the two books I have were the underdogs in their respective matches. Both are for younger readers than YA (I’m going to adopt the US term “MG”, as we don’t have an equivalent abbreviation this side of the Atlantic), and both the YA competitors are powerful stories of tragic loss; On the Jellicoe Road even won a Printz award. Beyond the pleasure of seeing an underdog advance, though, and more relevant to the embracing of subjectivity in the Battle, these are the books I have the most fun talking about because I’m not saying “I love this book but…” Or even its more unengaged cousin: “Some things are very well done but…” Of course, in the grand tradition of the drawbacks of getting what you’ve wished for, that means I have to eliminate one of the books when I really don’t want to. It’s especially hard as I think these two share some strengths, and so I’m going to talk a little bit about those strengths, and how they relate to my reading of YA and MG books as an adult, before discussing the books individually.

I’m no longer reading YA or MG books in order to share them with my kids, nor am I a librarian, author or teacher, and I’ve spent some time trying to figure out why I read these books and what it is that particularly works for me in my favourites. One thing I’ve realised is that I don’t consider YA as “coming of age” stories. It’s a sensible way to think of YA, but it just doesn’t fit with the way I believe we learn (or don’t), and grow (or don’t), and cope with loss and gain and try to outgrow or outmanoeuvre (or deny) the things that are between us and who we want to be. For me, that’s lifelong or nothing, and while there are obvious and major differences between, for example, coping with the death of a parent when you’re young, and coping with marital breakup when you’re responsible for young children (I chose this pair as both utterly obvious and as experiences I’ve had myself), there are also complicated overlaps, interweavings and cyclings through learning and growth in two such events for which age isn’t relevant. The YA I love most manages to show this kind of age-fluid learning, without letting the adults hijack the protagonists’ stories, and it’s sometimes easy to spot – the depiction of the protagonist’s mother in Sara Zarr’s Once Was Lost is a perfect example. In fantasy it can be harder to see, as YA fantasy not infrequently relates growing up with coming into your magical abilities and that usually is a one-off lesson that leaves you an adult. However, that doesn’t preclude the possibility of other, more complex chronologies of growth also being shown. I don’t read as much MG, and the younger age of the protagonists makes it harder again not to feel that there’s less relevance for the adult reader, but then, I’m not looking for a manual. I don’t want a how-to for coping with unresolved childhood bereavement in fictionalised form, let alone “The Berenstain Bears Clean up after Divorce”. Emotional wisdom embodied in story though – yes. And sometimes you find exactly that in a book (or two books) about 12-year-old girls. (One advantage of being a round two judge is not having to do book blurbs; I can just rely on everyone’s having read Cait and Andrée’s wonderful responses!  As it happens, I’ve also reviewed A Face Like Glass for Strange Horizons, and you can read that too.)

From Cait’s response, I want to pick up and elaborate on the fact that A Most Improper Magick (Kat, Incorrigible in the US) is “about Kat and her sisters”. Much of the sheer fun and delight comes from the Regency England setting, and the magic, and Kat’s incorrigibility, of course, but a lot of the depth comes from its being a story about family. On the surface level, it is Kat’s determination to save her eldest sister, Elissa, from sacrificing herself for the family that serves as the impetus setting all the chaos loose, and Kat has to negotiate her way around her sisters’ loving but not-always helpful care to try to set things right. Just below that surface, though, is my preferred kind of depiction of growth, and it’s centred on that lightly-depicted family tragedy in their past. Kat’s mother died right after Kat’s birth, and her sisters, Elissa and Angeline, had to take up the responsibility of parenting her just a few years later. Their father is loving and sweet, but an observant, involved parent he’s not, and their more recently-acquired stepmother is neither loving nor sweet. What are the chances that two children, bereaved and not being helped with it, will manage to parent a younger sibling without making many mistakes? Exactly. Kat has to learn that she has inherited their mother’s magical abilities, and start figuring out how to use them, while avoiding overbearing or downright villainous adults and her sisters’ often misguided beliefs about her place in the family. The question of the degree and type of responsibility you can take for others, and the need to understand where your own and others’ boundaries lie, underpins the charming fantasy adventure story, without ever overwhelming it or becoming messagey.

One of my favourite scenes (or at least, one of my favourite serious scenes; there are many possible favourite funny ones) comes near the end of the book. Elissa and Angeline have finally forgiven Kat for something she did accidentally, that hurt them both a great deal, and she knows she could leave it there, but chooses not to. Lovingly but firmly, she tells her sisters that they need to allow her to renegotiate the boundaries they have drawn for her as well as themselves. She does it without in any way denying their loss or experiences, and the quietness with which she tells them how they have to adjust their thinking is in lovely counterpart to the way she performs most of her magic, which is simply by bellowing “NO”. It’s the kind of loving assertiveness that is credible for this 12-year-old character, and is still difficult for at least one adult decades older.

Turning to A Face Like Glass, I’m going to pick up on one of the things I discussed in my Strange Horizons review, rather than anything Andrée said, although I agree wholeheartedly with everything in her response. That is the theme of seeing, which runs through the book in a variety of ways, from the obvious to the mind-bending. Of course Neverfell has to learn to see the wider world of Caverna, once she leaves the seclusion of Master Grandible’s tunnels, and that’s an extra-difficult task when everyone else wears Faces masking any true emotion. She has to learn to see friends who can be trusted – or at least friends she will trust, whether or not the trust is repaid – and has to discern the true nature of a Master Facesmith – the most adept of all liars in a society where everyone lies. She must learn whether she can use her own disadvantages as adroitly as others try to use them for their own gain. She has to see the deep injustice of Caverna’s society, and then, even harder, she has to see what she can do about it. That means, among other things, teaching those whom society has intentionally made faceless how to make themselves seen. And the culmination of this teaching is a climactic scene that is terribly poignant and quite hilarious at the same time. (The Face of Revolution is that of a deformed frog. Yes, you DO have to read just to find out what I’m talking about, if you haven’t grabbed the book already.)  Then there’s Caverna itself, and the way attempts to see it truly drive you mad (and contagiously mad), and the fact that the narrative doesn’t just tell us about this, but winds the prose around so that you start to feel you just might be able to see Caverna truly too, with one more sentence, one more line…

Learning to see clearly, in both the personal and wider (even political) senses, is the type of emotional task that I feel is of huge importance to both children and adults, and it’s not sugarcoated here as an easy thing to learn, or as something that can be learned once and then you’re finished. And yet, after we’ve been given an original and fully-developed world in Caverna, and had a fabulous character let loose on it, there’s something very special still to come. The epilogue has to be read after the book, as its joyful resolution of sorrows and injustices would lose much of its power otherwise, and so I’ll try to convey what it does in general terms. In a few short sentences, the reader is allowed a glimpse of the story just read, from outside, from another perspective, and sees that same, wonderful story, framed to give a completely different view.

As I said at the beginning, I’m not limited to “I love this book but…” but rather can write “I love it and…”  So here are my “and”s. I love A Most Improper Magick for its delightful, and often very funny, fantasy Regency England. I love its heart, and its serious side, with the loving and – despite the many squabbles and misunderstandings – united family. If you enjoy any of these things in your books, you should read it, and then you should read the sequel, which is just as much fun and even tighter in structure. Kat goes to Bath! And it is everything Regency Bath with magic could be! There’s a third wonderful MG Kat and a YA novella is apparently in the works, which I am eagerly anticipating. I also love A Face Like Glass, and for the reasons given above and because I think it does all the many things it does quite perfectly, I’m advancing it to the next round.

Congratulations to A Face Like Glass, which moves on to Round 3!


34 thoughts on “Round 2, Match 2: Kat, Incorrigible vs. A Face Like Glass

      1. tomorrow’s will kill me a little inside…

        Says She who doesn’t have to judge. (Next year. Just you wait, Beth!) And thanks for the sympathy, Katie. 🙂

      1. Ten, actually. As I was only blaming you for three quarters of them. And actually, not really, since theoretically some of the library books of doom should be read before I try and read Kat… (Too many library books…)

        1. You can always renew the library books! You will love both Kat and Sorcery and Cecelia, I think. I can see the Regency settings working for you.

          1. Oh, I adore Sorcery and Cecilia! One of my favourites. I read it a while ago. (All of the books I blame you for are not strictly book battle books. They are just all your fault.)

      1. Including the “Pretty, pretty book” part? 🙂

        (Also, I may have shunned you for a week or so if the choice had gone the other way. Possibly unfairly, but there you have it.)

        1. No, you get full and total credit for the “pretty, pretty book” part, which had nothing to do with my description of it. 🙂

          I totally understand the shunning impulse. Which is why, in truth, I still worry a bit that Beth will suddenly unfriend most of us and storm off, virtually clutching books to herself – these are ALL her favourite books, after all.

  1. Re: growth and YA and coming-of-age (because springboarding off people’s general literature thoughts is apparently what I do best) –

    I’ve been thinking about your distinction between coming-of-age and more fluid growth. With regard to MG, I think the growth will always be of a different sort – not that there won’t be any, because there should always be a character arc – but it’s of a different sort. As much as I completely agree with your challenge of the YA misconception found in many books, which seem to conclude that their characters end the book as finished products in which they come of age and then – what, stagnate? – I do think there’s something different about growth during teenage/young adult years.

    Kat and Neverfell are facing challenges while they’re younger, and their responses are certainly going to shape the adults they become, but part of their challenge is their youth. Teenagers don’t face that as much – or, more specifically, they face the being-treated-as-adults-one-day, children-the-next challenge, which has its own set of unique problems.

    So I think it’s fair to conclude that YA does have its own particular brand of growth – but not that it’s the sole/most important growth a person does, or that it stops once people are no longer young adults. And there might be similarities between challenges while younger and while older. But there’s nothing like facing that challenge for the first time, and having to deal with it yourself – and I think that’s what YA does (or should) capture.

    1. But there’s nothing like facing that challenge for the first time, and having to deal with it yourself – and I think that’s what YA does (or should) capture.

      Beautifully said.

      1. Thank you! When Hallie first sent me her response, I was really struck by her point about coming-of-age. I think she’s challenging the perceptions of some/many adults who read YA and who consider themselves close to finished products – so maybe in their heads YA marks that transition between the teenagers they remember being and the adults they consider themselves to be now.

        Which would mean that “coming of age” is essentially an explanation created by adult readers which defines the genre based on themselves. But it should be so much more, which where my view of coming of age comes in.

        1. Which would mean that “coming of age” is essentially an explanation created by adult readers which defines the genre based on themselves.

          That’s a really good point, and something I’ll have to think about. I usually tell people that the reason YA fiction appeals to adults as well is that it’s about the experience of being a young adult, and that’s something adults remember (in some cases too well). So if a lot of adults are reading YA, how does that shape the genre? Shannon Hale was grousing on Facebook a week or so ago about how adults are complaining about certain tropes in YA fiction, like the love triangle, being overused, and said something about how those tropes exist because that reflects how actual teens think and feel. So how legitimate is it for adults to have those complaints, if we’re talking about who defines the genre?

          1. I also think that a big part of its appeal is nostalgia, and maybe a remembered – or imagined? – freedom that adults no longer have, and wish they had appreciated.

            I don’t really have a problem with the genre’s intended audience being adults, too, because personally I don’t categorize books based on intended audience. I don’t see YA as only for young adults, or children’s books only for children. (Although marketing and publishing people define it that way, I think?) The committee approach is obviously more narrow, and I wonder if that filters into bloggers/reviewers’ approaches? Though the idea of adults predicting what teens will like always struck me as shaky, which is actually a point relevant to your question – CAN adults accurately predict what teens will like? Is there any way of knowing if their memories of teenage years are accurate, or hazy with nostalgia or other heightened emotions? And has Shannon Hale actually spoken to teens who relate to the YA-triangle approach, or is that based on her own memories/experiences?

            The responses are so personal, both from adults and teens, that I think there’s no way a genre about young adults can be narrowed down (especially when teens aren’t the ones writing the books, mostly) and it shouldn’t be narrowed down – because teens aren’t a hive mind. They share certain common experiences and that shapes the genre, sure, but they don’t all respond to those experiences the same way. Which is why there’s so much room in YA for – well, everything.

            (This got longer than I expected! Hitting post now.)

          2. Shannon Hale was grousing on Facebook a week or so ago about how adults are complaining about certain tropes in YA fiction, like the love triangle, being overused, and said something about how those tropes exist because that reflects how actual teens think and feel. So how legitimate is it for adults to have those complaints, if we’re talking about who defines the genre?

            Oh. YES, it’s legitimate. (I omitted a few words from that sentence, with a lot of self-restraint.) First, to state the most obvious, if people are complaining about tropes being “overused”, they’re not saying the tropes sprang into existence with no basis in the reality of people’s feelings, they’re saying they’re being used too much. Secondly, there are actual teens who complain about the overuse of these tropes in YA too, not to mention all the adults who are every bit as sick of the love triangle in adult urban fantasy, for example. Thirdly, maybe the love triangle reflects the feelings and thinking of teens Shannon Hale knows (or the teen she was), but not so much for me. (Actually, I was thinking about this wrt a book I just finished last night, and something that annoyed me in it was the depiction of the 50-year-old character’s feelings about his “love triangle”.) I know it’s not fair to treat what was probably a casual grumble on Shannon Hale’s part as more than that, but I do find the idea of excluding people from the group that is “allowed” to complain about a particular genre or sub-genre to be very problematic.

            Not, of course, that I think my or other YA-reading adults’ complaints about love triangles and InstaLove and overly passive female characters or anything else, is going to have the slightest effect on the publishing world. If we love YA deeply enough to want to talk about it, surely that’s a good thing, though?

          3. I have to reply to my own post rather than Hallie’s or Beth’s because it won’t let me–have I mentioned how I dislike how WordPress handles threading? I agree with both of you, and my question was rhetorical. (Also, Shannon bugs me because I disagree with almost every opinion she has and am not in a position to argue with her about it, and that was most certainly not a casual grumble on her part. I knew her briefly, back when she was first published, and I’m a little disappointed that she’s sort of turned into a shill for kneejerk feminism, which is probably too harsh, but like I said, she bugs me.)

            Hallie wrote: maybe the love triangle reflects the feelings and thinking of teens Shannon Hale knows (or the teen she was), but not so much for me. And for me. What disturbed me about the idea that somehow teens are the only ones allowed to decide what YA literature is was that the genre, if you can call it that, reflects the growth of an entire population over time. I’m not sure at what point “YA” came into being as a genre definition, but it most assuredly was long, long before the current crop of teens even existed. And yet we still recognize YA books that aren’t dystopian romances with love triangles. So whatever this genre may be, it’s open to interpretation by anyone who loves it, regardless of age.

            Personally, I don’t think of YA fiction just as coming of age stories, either. But if good fiction has to show the growth of a character (which is not always true, but enough so that I’m comfortable saying that it is) then that kind of growth in a YA novel is going to look like the character is moving from adolescence toward adulthood in terms of emotional and mental maturity, simply because they’re aging as they’re growing. It doesn’t have to be the completion of some stage of life, or the end of growth. And I also wonder about some adults’ perception of the “coming of age” story being more determined by their expectations of the literary genre’s bildungsroman, which is certainly a kind of story in which the ending will always be “I’ve survived my coming of age and now I’m complete, or at least able to put all that behind me.” But then, as Hallie said, those are the adults least likely to read YA books for fun–though possibly the most likely to try to define it as something real adults have outgrown the need for.

        2. I think she’s challenging the perceptions of some/many adults who read YA and who consider themselves close to finished products

          Well, those are the ones most likely not to read YA, unless it’s for professional reasons. Them, I’m very happy to challenge! I do get why it’s far simpler for everyone concerned to divide books up into children’s, YA and adult, and the simplest way of all is to do that by protagonist age. (Which is why Hilary McKay is so delightfully complicating all by herself!) And, of course, that type of simple division is certainly not limited to children’s books; look at the obnoxious way “literary fiction” is often defined as non-genre?

          Which would mean that “coming of age” is essentially an explanation created by adult readers which defines the genre based on themselves. But it should be so much more, which where my view of coming of age comes in.

          Having pretty much left the academic world of children’s literature at this point, I’m happy enough not to get into the whole, murky area of “we’re adults and reading books not written for us”. It’s a fascinating topic, but I’m far more interested in how we (by which I mean everyone involved in this wonderful battle) are defining our own reading of MG/YA as adults. Of course a bit of this is the same defensive piece that readers of speculative fiction (or romance, or probably many other genres) know so well, but we clearly don’t have to be defensive in this place, which is really wonderful.

          Possibly I’d have been more accurate if I’d said that while I don’t mentally define YA as a coming of age story, the books I love across all age-levels, are those that show a section of life in which the protagonist (or protagonists or protagonist and important adult) has aged emotionally. Maybe a bit of what can separate YA from “adult” fiction, for example, is that there’s less – oh, footprint? area? – to the teen’s life. So they won’t (usually!) have to deal with a parent with dementia and a child who’s dropped out of school/pregnant/maybe doing drugs and a cheating spouse and mortgage payments they worry about not being able to make. (I’m feeling apologetic to this poor person just for the invention of all these life difficulties!) It makes dealing with your parents divorcing while realising you don’t want to follow the career path of parental expectations, and having to accept that your BF/GF is emotionally abusive sound like a piece of cake, doesn’t it? But – the distinction that I’m after – is implied in the “dealing with”, which is not the same as learning emotional wisdom, and there may be just as much, or more, of the latter in the YA book as in the adult one.

          1. Well, I will probably end up discussing my thoughts on reading MG as an adult in a future GR review of a book still in the bracket. I find it a discussion easier to have with an example (and I don’t want to get into it while the book’s still in the running). the short answer is aware of the issue, but still not entirely objective.

          2. SO: Melissa and Andree have both articulated my thoughts better than I did! I agree with Melissa that those types of adults are likely to define YA in a more restrictive way, and that it probably filters down from the literary fiction non-genre (UGH) – and I agree with Andree that the discussion is easier to have with an example! I was thinking of Kat, who has to deal with things herself, certainly, but the perception is that she isn’t supposed to.

    2. Yes, I’m certainly not saying that there are no differences between people based on age. Even at my most argumentative I wouldn’t go that far. On the other hand, the idea that children are facing challenges while young with help and YA is about facing the challenges alone for the first time, seems to oversimplify in a lot of ways. I’ve certainly seen, in my own life and others’, children who have dealt with challenges by themselves in an emotional sense, with a variety of consequences that often follow into adult life. Years after I began to understand how I’d learned some really wrong lessons as a child, my default response in some situations (situations that are the epitome of adulthood) is still too often that of the 7-year-old who felt, as children usually do, that her dad’s death must be her fault.

  2. As a more sensible comment, out of curiosity, why is Face Like Glass considered an underdog? I never saw it as one when compared to The Floating Islands. I’d never head of either before reading, and having read both can’t really understand why Face Like Glass would be assigned underdog status.

    Also, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve typed: “Some things are very well done but…” in a GoodReads review. So that made me laugh..


      That’s my take. Also, Frances Hardinge in general can’t be found in US bookstores, and I find that her novels are much, much more niche than something like The King of Attolia (which I’d consider less universally appealing, I think!) and more word-of-mouth, too.

      Also, in general, YA does tend to beat MG in book battles.

      1. Right. I tend to keep forgetting that apparently Frances Hardinge is less accessible in the U.S. Because my library system has multiple copies of all of her books. And I find the quality of them so excellent that I have trouble thinking of them as underdogs. Under-appreciated maybe, but that’s not quite the same thing in my head. (Though I did have to order my copy of Face Like Glass, though I didn’t check all the bookstores, just my favourite one. IT CAME IN ON MONDAY. It says “Child, Thief, Madman, Spy, which speaks the truth and which one lies?” on the front. I am beyond pleased.)

        1. My library has all her other books! But, as Beth said, this one hasn’t been published in the US yet . . . except, oddly, on the Kindle (which is how I read it).

    2. Beth has given the two main reasons, and they are the most significant. As well as those, though, I was probably influenced by the assumption that obvious tragedy tends to be equated with “seriousness” and that tends to result in winning awards. Of course Neverfell is also an orphan and there is tragedy in her past, but it’s not right in front of the reader as tragedy, and we don’t know its nature until quite late in the book.

      1. Ah, well I have always hated the idea that obvious tragedy equates seriousness, or worse, literary merit (whatever that is). And I generally dislike books that are constantly tragic or the worst possible thing constantly happening (not that Floating Islands is that), so it would gave never occurred to me to judge by that criteria. I’d have been farore likely to do the opposite, if I’d thought of it.

        1. 🙂 You are my type of reader, clearly! One of my earlier reading memories is my mother reading Andersen stories to a friend and me and her asking for the tragic ones and me desperately pleading with my mother NOT to read those.

  3. Threading has just broken down completely for me, and it’s frustrating because I can’t even quite follow who is saying what in response to whom now. Gah.

    Melissa. WRT Shannon Hale’s reported grousing – I was trying to be as fair as I could be, which meant cutting out the follow-up to my “casual grousing” remark, about how a greatly respected author might need to be more thoughtful before indulging in a bit of public crankiness. I’m very surprised about her kneejerk feminism, as it’s kind of the last thing I’d expect from what you were reporting her saying. It smacks much more of the kind of defensive and self-protective grumbling that can happen when “stupid adults, who aren’t the intended readers anyway and why don’t they shut up and stop over-thinking everything” criticise some people’s books. Might equally come from fans as the authors, of course.

    And yes, yes and yes, about the development of the genre (I started to go into a long ramble about that, but then my reply was way too long already, so cut it back out), and the bildungsroman (ditto-ish, though I was thinking about Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre and Great Expectations in particular), and I love your point about how the emotional growth in books whose protagonists are on the verge of adulthood will appear to be totally coming of age. Brilliant.

    Beth. I don’t see YA as only for young adults, or children’s books only for children. (Although marketing and publishing people define it that way, I think?) Even marketing and publishing people have changed about this in the last few years, in response to a lot of evidence that there’s been a shift in who’s reading what. Of course old people like me snort crankily at the idea of “crossover appeal” and “hey, real adults occasionally read children’s books for fun” as new things, but in terms of marketing, they are quite new. As always, there are more interesting aspects to the categorizing of books by protagonist age than the marketing, though! I’m sometimes bemused, sometimes irritated, and sometimes wish I were a whole lot smarter, when I see comments from children’s lit people about whether an award-winner (or loser) might be a children’s book that doesn’t have truly have appeal for children but is all about the appeal for the judges/marketers/purchasing parents/whatever. I’m trying to think of examples and of course am blanking out entirely, but I think maybe one is the Penderwicks books? It seems legitimate in one way (not about those; I won’t have any criticism of that sort!) and yet to ignore the fact that we’re always either making complete guesses about what “the child” reader will like (and here we’re back to Jacqueline Rose!) or merely relying on anecdotal evidence.

    (Also, didn’t I say that about literary fiction trickle down? Or was it Melissa? So sorry to be this confused!) I totally agree it’s easier to discuss with examples, and agree with the point you’re making about Kat, though there’s also the fact that her sisters must have been about her age when they started parenting. Anyway, are you saying that the perception of her sisters (also the other two adults who think they can decide for her, whom I won’t name for spoilers) is that she shouldn’t be doing anything by herself? Or that the reader is supposed to see it as a problem that the adults around her aren’t taking care of things for her?

    1. I’ve seen a lot of comments this year about that, re: The Thing About Luck – a lot of teachers/librarians saying they liked it, but it wasn’t circulating well with their kids. (Of course, others immediately respond that they have students/patrons who love it, so it varies.) And it seems like this comes back around to – should that be a Newbery book, then? The fact that it wasn’t could be a combination of any number of things – and maybe there was an adult on the committee who thought it was as boring as I did – but maybe there was also an adult who thought it didn’t appeal that much to children. Who knows?

      You definitely made the point about literary fiction when we were discussing the Booker/Printz awards! I thought it was interesting that Melissa made a similar point here, and I read an article on the Horn Book website recently about how the Printz is becoming more literary, too. (Totally born out by Midwinterblood winning the Printz this year.)

      Re: Kat – I meant the perception of the adults around her, thinking she was too young to deal with all this herself! Even her sisters, who – like you said – probably dealt with a lot themselves at her age. (Which is a really realistic response from them.) But I think the perception of the adults in the novel comes from real life, too – we don’t expect children to deal with everything themselves and we actively give them resources that adults may choose not to take advantage of, i.e. counseling in a school after a crisis.

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