Imagine a world where, instead of being sentenced to prison terms, criminals are chromed, their skin tinted different colors to announce their status as thieves, swindlers, pedophiles. That's the punishment given to all but the worst offenders in the dystopian U.S. of Hillary Jordan's thought-provoking new novel, When She Woke. A re-imagining of The Scarlet Letter, Jordan's book raises the same questions Hawthorne's did: Does one sinner have the right to judge another? When has one suffered enough for the act he/she committed? Who is more free - the incarcerated individual, whose crimes are publicly known, or the one whose guilt must be endured alone and in silence? How do "faithful" Christian people justify shaming, instead of forgiving, one who has wronged another? How much of a role - if any - should religion play in the formation and upholding of a country's laws? And, perhaps most relevant, what is the most effective method of punishing and reforming a wrongdoer?
For Hannah Payne, a 26-year-old seamstress, chroming is just a part of life. She sees Chromes frequently on the streets of Dallas, but like any good girl, she stays far away from them. A devout woman like Hannah, whose almost cloistered life revolves solely around her church and her family, has nothing in common with outcasts like them. At least that's what she thinks. Until a secret affair with a prominent minister leaves her pregnant. By law, she can't have the baby without naming its father. Not willing to risk her lover's pious reputation by exposing him as an adulterer, she seeks an abortion instead. The act, considered murder by both church and state, earns Hannah a sentence of 16 years as a Red.
When she's released from the hospital, where her chroming procedure was not only performed, but televised to the public, Hannah stumbles out into a world grown suddenly cruel. Her flaming red skin seems to render her inhuman, making her both a target for lewd jeers and a danger to be avoided at all costs. Shunned by her family, Hannah must make her way in a world where she has no rights, where discrimination colors her every interaction, where she's judged - instantly and harshly - by the crime she has committed. It's a bleak, tortorous existence, one made even more difficult by the fact that Hannah can't see her family or acknowledge the man she loves or live any kind of normal life. The shunning, the humiliation, the hardness of the punishment are all designed to teach Hannah one thing - how it feels to be victimized.
Hannah knows she could end it all by choosing suicide over endurance, but she doesn't have the courage to do to herself what she did to her unborn child. Besides, her new life is showing her things she never saw before: hypocrisy, lies, hate, and truth. As she struggles to come to terms with life as a Red, Hannah "unknowingly embarks on a journey of self-discovery that forces her to question the values she once held true and the righteousness of a country that politicizes faith and love" (quote from jacket copy).
The premise of When She Woke intrigued me from the second I heard about it. It's a fascinating concept, explored in a way that is raw, searing, yet sympathetic, too. Much to my surprise, Jordan made me care about Hannah, even though I found her crime repugnant and her "selfless" justification deplorable. I didn't agree with the majority of Hannah's decisions, but I still found her story riveting. Jordan writes so vividly, so provocatively that I literally could not stop myself from turning the pages of When She Woke. In the end, though, I disagreed so strongly with Hannah's conclusions that I found myself ultimately disappointed by a novel I thought I might love. My own beliefs just differ too strongly, I guess, although I still think this novel would make a great book club choice. Like Hawthorne's masterpiece, When She Woke just begs to be discussed.
(Readalikes: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Small-Town Sinners by Melissa Walker)
Grade: B
If this were a movie, it would be rated: R for language, sexual content and adult situations/themes
To the FTC, with love: I bought When She Woke at Changing Hands Bookstore with some of the millions I make from my lucrative career as a book blogger. Ha ha.

(Note: While this review will not contain spoilers for Prized, it may inadvertently reveal plot surprises from the book's predecessor. As always, I recommend reading books in a series in order.)

I loved Birthmarked, the first book in Caragh M. O'Brien's dystopian YA series, so much that I couldn't wait for the sequel. So, when a publicist from Roaring Brook Press contacted me recently about reviewing the sequel, I squealed like a pig and nearly wet my pants in excitement said yes. Since the book doesn't come out until November 8, I made myself wait to read it. For like a month. Then, I caved. So much for self-restraint. I should know by now that I have none at all when it comes to books. Now, I have to answer the big question: Was Prized worth the wait?

Really? You thought I would tell you in the second paragraph of my review? Wrong! You'll just have to wait for it (Or, you could always skip to the bottom of this review, which I don't recommend at all, but as you can tell, patience is not one of my virtues either, so whatever. I won't judge).

Birthmarked ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, with 16-year-old Gaia Stone running into the wilderness, desperate to escape the cruel control of the Enclave. When Prized begins, it's days later - Gaia's outrun her pursuers, but is now lost in the wasteland, weak from exhaustion and starvation. Her infant sister grows frailer by the hour. If Gaia doesn't find help soon, they'll both die.

When a man on horseback rides up to her camp, offering to take Gaia to a safe place, she knows it's her last and only hope for survival. But when she arrives in Sylum, a small city run by a domineering woman called Matrarc Olivia, she begins to doubt that her new home is any better than her old one. She doesn't understand the matriarchal society where it's illegal for unmarried men and women to touch each other; where she, who's risked everything for her baby sister, is declared an "unfit mother;" and where dangerous community secrets are being kept from the people of Sylum. Gaia knows disobeying the Matrarc could mean never seeing her sister again, but she didn't fight the Enclave only to be enslaved to a different kind of tyrant, did she? With everything she holds dear hanging in the balance, Gaia must make a decision - conform or flee, once again, into the unforgiving wilderness. In Sylum, she has friends, a job, and the affections of several men; in the wasteland, she'll have nothing. Except freedom.

So, maybe I cursed Prized by wanting it so much. I don't know how else to explain my disappointment with the book. No matter how much I wanted to love it - and I did, I really, really did - the story seemed to annoy me more with each page I turned. A huge problem, for me anyway, is that much of the plot revolves around Gaia's love square (yes, three guys are fighting for her attention). The fact that she encourages each of them and still can't decide which to choose just gets irritating after awhile. I can understand her confusion, though, since none of the three had enough personality to stand out - I couldn't keep track of who was who either. Outside of Gaia's romantic issues, not a lot of other stuff really happens, even though there's plenty of built-in conflict that offers potential for intriguing subplots. The problems that do arise for Gaia seem to resolve themselves too easily, resulting in an unrealistic and unsatisfying storyline.

On the plus side, I found the idea of a Sylum-type community fascinating. Terrifying, but definitely interesting. Since so much of the people's lives revolve around childbirth, the story brings up pertinent questions about issues like abortion, adoption, a woman's right to choose, unfit mothers, gender roles, etc. Those sections made me think, much more so than all of Gaia's lover's quarrels.

So, back to my original question: Was Prized worth the wait? Mostly no, although I'm glad to know how Gaia's escape into the wilderness ended and, even though I didn't love Prized, I'm still anxious to see where the story goes next. I just wish this book offered more excitement, more depth, more suspense. More of what I loved about Birthmarked. I'm not ready to write off Caragh M. O'Brien just yet - in fact I'm looking forward to Promised, the final book in the trilogy. My enthusiasm's just a little more cautious now, that's all.

(Readalikes: Birthmarked by Caragh M. O'Brien and Delirium by Lauren Oliver)

If this were a movie, it would be rated: PG for intense situations

To the FTC, with love: I received an ARC of Prized from the generous folks at Roaring Brook Press (a division of Macmillan). Thank you!

In the not too distant future - 2065 to be exact - Earth's natural resources have dwindled due to overpopulation and wasteful usage. Inside the gated city where Ransom Lawe lives, laws govern everything from how much water comes out of the faucet at one time to how many children a woman can birth. With frequent blackouts, little food, no fuel for travel, and few reasons to get up in the morning, it's a hard, bleak existence. Still, it beats living out in the wild. At least in the city people have food. Sometimes.

As a recycler, Ransom makes barely enough money to support his wife and two young sons. Working long hours, plus wasting precious minutes trying to navigate the city's unreliable tram system, means he barely sees his family at all. Perhaps that's how he misses the fact that his wife is pregnant - with an illegal third child. Some people can afford to buy an extra child credit, but Ransom can't. Since Teya's insistent on keeping the baby, Ransom investigates every option available to them. To no avail.

With each passing week, Teya's pregnancy becomes harder to conceal. If anyone discovers her secret - a nosy neighbor, a cold-hearted snatcher, or Teya's sister, the Population Director - she will be taken, the child forcefully expelled from her body. The more desperate Ransom's situation grows, the more insane it seems. Should their tainted government really have this much control over people's lives? Disillusioned as he is, Ransom still can't imagine leaving the city. Where would he go? How would he even make it out in the wild with young children and a pregnant wife? He'd rather sacrifice his baby. Wouldn't he?

Grappling with doubt, fear and outright desperation, Ransom must choose what to believe in, whom to trust. In a world where one wrong move could cost him everything, Ransom needs to be very, very careful where he steps ...

While the plotting and character development in The Third by Abel Keogh leave something to be desired, it's not a bad debut novel. Not at all, really. The idea of population control makes Keogh's dystopian world unique (although Margaret Peterson Haddix also has a series about illegal third children), since most end-of-the-world societies have the opposite problem. It's also an issue rife with tension, making the story both intense and relevant. I actually loved the whole idea of it. Keogh makes some rookie mistakes, though - characters that don't exactly leap off the page, info-dumpy dialogue, and plot devices that hinge entirely on coincidence - all of which distract from the story. Still, the novel commanded my attention, propelling me through its pages in a matter of hours. Did I love every word? No, but I think Keogh's got some serious potential and, just for the record, if he happened to write a sequel to The Third, I would totally read it. Hint, hint.

(Readalikes: Reminded me of lots of other dystopians, but especially the Shadow Children series by Margaret Peterson Haddix, Birthmarked by Caragh M. O'Brien and Delirium by Lauren Oliver.)

Grade: C

If this were a movie, it would be rated: PG for violence and intense situations

To the FTC, with love: I received a finished copy of The Third from the generous folks at Bonneville Books and Tristi Pinkston Book Tours, for which this review was written. Thank you!

Last month, Melissa over at One Librarian's Book Reviews asked, "Do you find yourself viewing books through morally-tinted glasses? Do you think this detracts from your enjoyment of certain types of stories (those that grate against your personal beliefs)?" These questions kept rolling around in my mind as I read What I Thought I Knew, a memoir by Alice Eve Cohen. The truth is, there are several issues in her book that I find morally reprehensible. Because of this, I wondered if I could evaluate it fairly - not only am I "grading" her book here, but I'm also judging it against five other memoirs to determine which Elle magazine will deem best non-fiction book of 2009. This is the conclusion I came to: No matter a book's subject, I can judge its merits fairly when it comes to writing, editing, plot construction, character development, originality, etc. Of course, the best books are not always those with the best editing, or the most exciting plot - for me, the greatest are those that capture me and proceed to thrill my heart and soul. Connection is key, but when it comes to that, my "morally-tinted glasses" can sometimes be problematic. I, like all of you, approach every book I read carrying my own moral, religious, and political ideas, as well as the breadth of my personal experience - no matter how open-minded I tell myself to be, all of these things color how I view a book. This is especially true in the case of Cohen's book. Technically, it's well-written; truthfully, it turned my stomach.

In 1999, Cohen is finally happy. After battling infertility, enduring a divorce, fighting for custody of her 3-year-old adopted daughter, struggling as a single parent, and trying to make enough money to pay the bills, she's finally feeling some of her burdens lifting. She's engaged to a man 10 years her junior - Michael's her own personal fountain of youth. He's kind, creative, in love with both her and her daughter. At 44, she's found success in both her personal and professional lives; there's no reason to believe her future will be anything but bright. In the back of her mind, though, lurks her Jewish mother who constantly warned against tempting the Evil Eye by enjoying too much happiness. Turns out, her mother knew what she was talking about.

Cohen's joy drains as illness takes over. She's nauseated, sore, and completely exhausted. Any woman who's ever been pregnant recognizes these sypmtoms for what they are, except that Cohen is infertile. Because of a Bicornuate uterus, she can't get pregnant. Her doctors search for a diagnosis, offering everything from early menopause to "middle-aged loss of muscle tone" (14) to a bladder disorder. Finally, an emergency CAT scan reveals the truth: she's 6 months pregnant. Considering her advanced age, plus the fact that she's taken estrogen for years, received no prenatal monitoring, and unknowingly put her baby at risk, she's not surprised to find that the fetus is not developing normally. Terrified, Cohen considers abortion, suicide, adoption. She wrestles with herself over the ramifications of "killing ... what might be a viable baby" (55), of dealing with a preemie or a special needs child, of not raising her own baby, and of bringing to life a child she already detests. "I try every day," she writes, "to want a baby" (66).

The pregnancy ends in an unexpected way, which throws everything into a completely different light. Suffering from severe post-partum depression and an "unforgivable ambivalence" (135), Cohen makes her way blindly through this confusing, new landscape. Doubting herself, despising herself, and ultimately learning to trust herself, Alice Eve Cohen comes to revise everything she thought she knew.

Like Cohen, I possess a malformed uterus; I've dealt with infertility; I've worried over raising a premature or special needs child; I've hated myself for providing an inadequate incubator for the fetus growing inside me; and my life has been changed by adoption. Considering all that we have in common, I should have found in Cohen a bosom buddy. Maybe our differences are just too glaring: she's a liberal agnostic from New York, I'm a conservative Mormon from the west. I abhor abortion, and find the whole idea of wrongful life lawsuits (which comes into play in What I Thought I Knew) repugnant on so many levels. While I admire Cohen's courage (it takes a lot of guts to admit you hated your baby on sight), to me she came off mostly as a selfish whiner. I know that's harsh and will probably earn me an angry comment or two, but that's how I feel. I've been told I don't understand depression and chemical imbalances, and that's probably true - I've always been a happy, positive person who tends to believe that if I can deal with the crap of life without complaining, so can you. So, while I didn't enjoy this book (in fact, much of it made me sick to my stomach), I can at least appreciate the fact that it helped me empathize with another woman's heartbreak. I'm sure there are hundreds of women out there who will find that Cohen says everything they've thought and felt. I am not one of those women. But, I can admit that this book made me think. It's haunted me since I put it down. Do I recommend it? I don't know.

Technically speaking, What I Thought I Knew is well-written. Not beautifully, not brilliantly, not lushly. In fact, it's very stark and unsentimental. Honest. It's also choppy and frenzied in places. The story's engrossing, if not engaging. Cohen describes herself and her circle of family, friends, and associates in ways that make them interesting, human and sympathetic. It's an affecting story, but not necessarily a touching one. Does that make sense?

I think what I'm trying to say is this: What I Thought I Knew by Alice Eve Cohen is technically well-written, but I wouldn't call it enjoyable. Many will connect with this novel (see Melissa's review, for instance). I didn't. If it were possible to remove my "morally-tinted glasses" or if I wasn't the person I am, maybe I would have liked it better, but it isn't and I'm not. The most I can do is admit my prejudices and move on.

(Note: If you're interested in reading more about wrongful life lawsuits, try Jodi Picoult's novel Handle With Care, reviewed here.)

Grade: C

If this were a movie, it would be rated: R for language, sexual content, and adult situations.