Why We Protest


It’s the day of the Muslim Ban protest at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, and I’m pacing around the parking lot of my apartment complex, reading a book about Robert Mugabe’s dictatorship in Zimbabwe. The weather is chilly, which I find fitting. The cold helps keep my blood from boiling.

Eventually my friend Chris picks me up. He’s got long Jesus hair and drives a Prius, and even though it’s cold enough for me to put the hood of my jacket up, he’s wearing flip-flops. I slide my book into the backpack I’m bringing (which is loaded up with a water bottle, grapes, tortilla chips, and dip courtesy of my wife) and climb into the car. Chris seems at peace, calm. We exchange pleasantries and then get to talking about what it is we’re about to do, why we’re doing it.

We are both of us disillusioned. It has become nearly impossible to have any faith in representative government. The foreign policy and unchecked drone strikes of Barack Obama were bad enough, the election of Donald Trump worse, and the first ten days of Trump’s presidency worse yet. Chris leans back in his seat as he drives and tells me that one of the things he’s most dismayed about with Trump’s recent executive order is that there are several mayors of various “sanctuary cities” who have expressed the desire to fight Trump’s rhetoric and policies, and yet none of them are outright sending their local police forces in to keep the TSA from detaining people. In other words, like so many other moments in the history of America, the liberals are rolling over to the radical Right. The GOP, says Chris, know that all they have to do is stonewall any compromise and the Democrats will inevitably cave to them in the name of maintaining order and smooth governmental function. In this way, the nation continually moves farther and farther to the Right, inevitably leading us to this crucial moment in history: a President Trump whose right-hand man is the detestable and fascistic Steve Bannon. He tells me of a quote from Julius Nyerere, the first president of Tanzania: “The US is also a one-party state. But with typical American extravagance, they have two of them.”

We stop at a gas station to fuel up, and before Chris heads inside to grab some snacks he hands me a chunk of cardboard, a marker, and his knife. I cut the cardboard shabbily in twain while I wait for him to return, all the while wondering what I’ll put on my makeshift sign. This is my first protest, and I realize that I’ve thought of no catchy phrase. I’ve been too angry, too viscerally upset. So instead I set the cardboard aside and wait for Chris.

Back on the road, we continue our discussion of the state of the Union, its many faults, our disillusionment with the whole system. I bring up my favorite book of last year, Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century, and we discuss how Piketty’s chief fault is that he spends the entire book showing why capitalist-based democratic social states don’t work, and then finishes with a solution that is essentially a modified capitalist-based democratic social state. The problem is that we are trained in this system from the moment we’re born, trained to calculate everything based upon the monetary value it will bring us, not realizing that this value is a construction. We discuss how, back in the day, half of Americans were farmers. Now something like two percent are, and we produce a surplus of food every year. There is no reason for widespread hunger to exist on this planet. We have the technology to solve it. We have the technology to eradicate many diseases. And yet we don’t, because there is not enough profit in it. This, it seems to me and Chris, is the most damning evidence that our entire system is flawed beyond repair.

Then we pull into the parking deck at RDU and it’s time to make our signs. Now, all of a sudden, the reality of what we’re doing sinks in for me. President Donald Trump has just signed an executive order that has become widely known as the Muslim Ban. Because of this, many families have been separated from relatives who had just gone on vacation, and many green-card and visa holders have been detained at airports around the country. This is fascism, plain and simple: it is the restriction of liberty and compassion (as the order would mean refusal of access for refugees fleeing the unconscionable violence of the Islamic State) in the pursuit of comfort and safety. This country, which while no bastion of morality in the past at least proudly defeated the Nazis, has now grown closer to fascistic, militaristic government than ever before. I could go into this more, and show why it’s more than just this single action of Trump’s that leads me to this conclusion, but that would be too long.

So Chris and I settle down and take out the marker. Still at a loss, I decide to keep it simple with the statement “Refugees are PEOPLE; kindness is STRENGTH.”

Chris has been to the Women’s March, and he’s a veteran of this kind of protest. He pens the much better “ADMIT ANYONE WHO WILL PUNCH RICHARD SPENCER.

We walk toward the designated protest area, blending into a trickle of latecomers like ourselves. There are some barricades and police standing by, and we’re herded down to the back of the protest crowd. This area, unfortunately, is well away from the departure zones. We’re not impeding or making difficult the normal operations of the airport, and that’s problematic. A protest only really works or has meaning if it causes discomfort. It is only effective if it shuts something down or makes the normal business of everyday life difficult. Only then is any point made.

But we sit in the back as many more people pile in behind us, and a handful of younger ladies in hijab make some chants. Soon they are joined by a black woman with a hand-made bucket-drum and a skinny man with a tambourine that I can barely hear over the voices. I have noted before that the problem with the Left is that everyone thinks his own solution is the only solution and that compromise is unthinkable, and so while we’re all in agreement that, say, fascism is bad, we’re split on how to combat it. This idea also proves true in our protests. The chants are disjointed, often two or three happening at once, and even when we all chant the same thing half the crowd is offbeat. As a former percussionist, this greatly bothers me. The drummer and the tambourinist continue to try to keep time, though, unperturbed.

But then I remember marching band, and I realize what this means. It means that there are so many people around (and no one brought a megaphone, oddly enough) that we’re all reacting to each others’ sounds, which throws us all off. This is a good thing. It means we are legion.

I later learned that though the protest permit was administered for 150 people, more than 1,000 showed up.

At one point a group of green-and-black clad hippies with beards and multiple piercings show up, each of them wielding cigarettes. Chris thinks that they’re probably with some political group or another, maybe PSL or something. They start trying to get the crowd on board with some more intense chants like “Fuck your borders, fuck your wall. America was meant for all!” and “Who shuts shit down? We shut shit down!” My favorite was the simple “Fascists out; Refugees in!” because of its clarity and brevity. But eventually this peters out and the group moves on.

Eventually we start moving forward, which is an unplanned part of the protest. I briefly wonder what’s going on before Chris and I are swept along in the tide of protesters. We pass the police car that marked the end of the designated protest zone. When we’ve stopped moving, the 1,000-strong protesters are now in front of the departure area, and I’m glad that we’re finally in a position to cause a bit of nonviolent shock to the powers that be.

(I would later find out that these people were responsible for the movement, and that it was probably why the protest got shut down early).

At some point the police form a line and start slowly condensing the crowd. Unbeknownst to the majority of us, the protest is over; it has been called off by the airport almost an hour and a half ago, when it became clear that way more than 150 people had shown up. So we slowly condense and leave in small groups, and though it feels great to be part of such a massive turnout, I am left to wonder the same thing I always wonder about protests: have we really done anything to bring about any real change?

Before we leave, one last person comes up to give Chris a fist-bump over his sign. “Nonviolence protects the State, man,” the guy says as we start to walk away. I am reminded of something else Chris told me in the early stages of the protest: usually, if someone is directly inciting you to violence at one of these things, that person is probably a cop.

We drive out of the airport in an orderly fashion, directed by police officers. And then we’re on the road, driving back to my apartment complex. I haven’t even touched the food I brought with me.

In the car, we talk about the heightened anti-immigrant rhetoric that has become increasingly prevalent on the Right. Moreover, we commiserate in our distaste for much of the Left’s counter-rhetoric on this issue (i.e. “immigrants and refugees bring so much to our communities… Steve Jobs was the son of a Syrian immigrant!”). No, we say to each other, we don’t save refugees or welcome immigrants because one of them might be a Steve Jobs. We don’t give homeless people houses for free (as Utah has done in an ongoing social experiment) because it’s a more cost-effective solution. We do these kindnesses because we’re dealing with human fucking beings. This, Chris says, is a symptom of our indoctrination into capitalism: every human is seen through the eyes of potential (monetary) value.

And then Chris says something else that truly blows my mind and makes me forget what I was just about to say (which, if you know me, is quite a feat). He says that this is essentially what social media has done to us. Social media, with its retweets and shares and likes and comments, has given a numeric value to your very thoughts.


So much of our lives are now spent on social media, farming for likes and retweets and Facebook interactions. And while I’d classify this as amoral, it is still a way in which harmful capitalist dogma injects itself into our thought processes. It is a way in which we dehumanize people, even if slightly, and condense ourselves into a series of “engagements,” as Twitter analytics call them.

As Chris pulls into my apartment complex to drop me off, we talk about all sorts of historical problems with our nation, how it could be better, and how all of this is contingent upon the people taking personal responsibility for the nation’s direction. Still, in the back of my mind, I’m worrying about that social media idea. I have been planning, throughout the day, to write a blog post about my protest experience. I brought along a notebook to record important moments or thoughts. And now here you are, reading them. Giving me feedback and engagements.

Is that what this protest is, when it comes down to it? I mentioned earlier how good it felt to be around people who were vocally supporting immigrants and refugees, how comforting it was to know that folks are just as upset as I am and are willing to fight an increasingly authoritarian government to show compassion to suffering humans. Yet is this not merely a form of “engagement”? Earlier I mentioned that over 1,000 people came to the protest. Is this not, like social media shares, a way of giving the protest numeric value? In this sense, have we really offered a new paradigm here, or were we just pretending?

And then, of course, I came home. And I logged onto my computer to assure people that I was safe, to look for news about other protests around the country, and to see how people are responding. Also of course, many people are aggrieved over the protesters. Many people are aggrieved at flight delays or minor traffic disruption, or merely at “whiny liberals.”

In short, many people are more upset about the disruption of their own normal everyday routines than they are about the prospect of shutting off entire swathes of this planet’s population from much-needed help.

We are the most prosperous nation in the history of the world. As far as we know, we–you and I, right now–are the most prosperous group of beings in the history of the universe.

And we’re too scared of the prospect of dying by terrorism to help people in war-torn areas. Though the risk of such a death is lower than dying from a lawnmower, we remain afraid. And we hoard our riches from those who are suffering.

So no, I don’t think the protest did much. Even after a federal judge put an emergency stay on Trump’s executive order, reports are that the stay is going unheeded in many airports. We haven’t solved the problem, and may not have brought about any change at all.

But we fight. We continue to fight. Not because it brings us value or social media likes. Not because we will change the dreadful policies or change the direction of our government.

We fight because these are human beings we’re talking about. Human fucking beings.

Keep fighting.



Why Writing Nonfiction Feels Wrong, But Isn’t



My uvula is forked, but not my tongue. That little dangly bit at the back of your throat? Yeah, mine has a bifurcation in it (likely the result of my palate closing late-on in my mother’s pregnancy). The kindest way to describe what this looks like is to say that it resembles a sort of upside-down heart. The way I end up having to describe it, inevitably, is that it basically looks like a tiny ballsack in my throat.

I know about the forked-uvula thing because I was told about it by my family doctor literally every time I visited him when I was growing up. We’d have almost the exact same conversation every visit, verbatim.

Doc: “Say ahh.”
Me: “Ahh.”
Doc: “Hey, did you know you have a bifurcated uvula?”
Me: “Yes.”
Doc: “How did you know?”
Me: “You tell me every time I come in here.”
Doc: “Well, it’s a pretty rare thing. Pretty neat, Michael.”
(an awkward pause)
Doc: “Hey, it’s better than having a forked tongue!”

And every time, this cheered me up. Even when I was sick. Maybe my mood lightened because of the humor of my doctor’s confusion (though certainly not his corny joke); maybe I felt better because of the sheer familiarity of the routine. Most likely what lifted my mood was something different, something bigger than all of that.

Most likely what lifted my mood was the doctor’s sincere interest, his wonderment, at a part of me (even such a small thing as a uvula that no one ever sees, that has no effect on anything, really, whatsoever). As if something about me was worthy of note.

I grew up a good Christian boy, regularly attending church as many as three times a week, listening as patiently as I could to sermons and Sunday School lessons. From the age of nine until the age of twenty-five, when I left the faith, I was relatively diligent in my beliefs. What I’m saying is that I heard a lot of sermons and talks and testimonies and messages. Understandably, plenty of these talks get lost in time, and it’s interesting to note the ones that I remember.

One such moment from my religious past that has stuck with me is a talk that was given to my youth group by our youth pastor, Brad. The talk concerned humility. Trying to drive home the fact that remaining humble is a constant process that requires serious dedication, Brad gave us this little quip that I think has some profound implications: “If I were to give out a trophy to the most humble person in the room, I’d have to snatch it back the minute someone came up here to take it.”

Obviously Brad’s point was that humility is one of those slippery qualities that put you in a Catch-22 situation. If you think you have it, you probably don’t. And this was meant as a way for us young folks to start to think about our actions and our attitudes, to strive even more toward behaving in healthier, kinder ways toward other people. It was meant as a sort of admonishment and encouragement to us, a command to esteem others above ourselves. And this, of course, is a good and noble purpose.

However, I have grown up to be a writer. I have discovered that I feel most comfortable and alive when I am crafting some kind of written work. It is, to borrow jargon from my religious past, my calling. And one of the most important lessons to learn about writing is that the most powerful pieces resonate on a personal level. As all of my teachers hammered into me in college: write what you know.

But I don’t like writing too much of what I know. I don’t like writing creative nonfiction about my own past. For one, it feels less revelatory than my fiction (which, paradoxically, often winds up showing me something true about myself that I wasn’t even aware I was writing toward). Yet I think the worse issue with nonfiction, at least for me, is that it feels terribly unhumble. Writing fiction feels like I’m creating something new, making a thing that wasn’t there before. Perhaps I’ve been trained by an upbringing that urged me to join in the work of the Creator, that told me art and creation were things that proved I was made in the image of God, and perhaps for this reason fiction seems much holier, much safer. With fiction, I create whole realities out of thin air.

Writing nonfiction feels like screaming at the world LOOK AT ME, THESE ARE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME, READ THEM AND BOW BEFORE MY WORDS. It feels uncouth, somehow almost dirty, in a way that writing fiction simply doesn’t. It feels like esteeming myself before others.

It feels like sin.

But it is not.

Writing nonfiction can be poignant or aphoristic; it can be a way to categorize your own life, even only for yourself (like a journal); it can be useful in finding others who have had similar experiences, useful in helping them through those experiences when needed, useful in bonding. Even if it weren’t important in all of those ways, writing nonfiction would still be important simply for the reason that it often does feel less safe, less holy than writing fiction. What better way to stretch yourself in your art than by doing that which is difficult for you to do? What better way to learn?

Above all that, writing nonfiction is important and good and righteous for this reason: it affirms that everyone has some feature that is interesting and worthy of note.

See, you may not have some harrowing drug-recovery story that you think will sell a lot of books. You may not have met tons of famous people or traveled to exotic locations. Hell, I went out of the country one time over a decade ago and I still try to milk those stories as much as I can. But even so, you have something within you that can serve as a story, that can and must be told. As the great Flannery O’Connor once said: “Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.”

You have important things to say. You are interesting and worthy of note.

As for me, my name is Michael Candelario.

My uvula is forked, but not my tongue.

A List of Books I Read in 2016 (in [Basically] No Particular Order)


THE WAY THIS WORKS is simple. I’ve listed all the books I read in 2016. Each has at least a brief review to give you a flavor of how I felt about it. If the book’s title and author are bold and in italics, that means I recommend checking it out. If not, I either didn’t like the book or wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. For cases that are on the line between recommendation and non-recommendation, the review should say how I feel about the book.



  • Capital in the Twenty-First Century – (Thomas Piketty)
    • One of (if not THE) most anticipated books on economics in the past decade (or more), Piketty’s book breaks down and analyzes the current state of the global economy in relation to the trends of the previous two centuries. Written in a layman’s style, the work is still difficult to parse at times (though not overly technical). Piketty is challenging, accessible, and necessary. In my opinion, this is probably the most important book I read this year, and it should be required reading for anyone wanting to discuss or think about capitalism and economics in the modern age (and perhaps especially in the age to come).


  • Congo: The Epic History of a People – (David Van Reybrouck)
    • Exactly what the title suggests, Van Reybrouck’s book takes you through the history of Congo (from its arbitrary creation as a Belgian colony, through independence and authoritarianism, up to its current struggles). Written passionately from the standpoint of a Belgian whose father lived in Congo for five years just after independence, the book is an incredibly poignant picture of both the devastation that richer countries can wreak on poorer nations and of the fabled indomitable human spirit.


  • The New Middle East: The World After the Arab Spring – (Paul Danahar)
    • Written by the former BBC Middle East Bureau Chief, this work is absolutely essential to understand the complex factors that led to the shakeup of the Arab world. Danahar is incisive and honest, and has a relatively evenhanded and consistent approach to the politics of the area. If you’re interested in learning more about the Middle East and its constantly shifting factions and complex underpinnings, this book is indispensable.


  • Hitch-22 – (Christopher Hitchens)
    • Admittedly, I liked this book. But I only gave it 3 stars on Goodreads and I am not recommending it here because it misses what I think should be the point of a good autobiography. While it does give a glimpse into the mind of Hitchens, and while it is at times poignant and instructive and wildly interesting, I think it veers too much into the territory of overindulgence. That is, too often Hitchens seems caught up in his own mystique. Perhaps, though, this is an incorrect interpretation on my part. By no means is it a bad read.


  • Mortality – (Christopher Hitchens)
    • Now this is a far better work by Hitchens. Diagnosed with cancer and knowing of his impending death, Hitchens’ partially unfinished book is incredibly insightful and (I’m using that word again here) poignant. You sense that he is being more honest and open than with his earlier Hitch-22. His reflections on life are applicable, interesting, emotional, and lovely. If you have any interest in Hitchens, this is a must-read. You almost certainly will not finish the book with dry eyes.


  • Free Will – (Sam Harris)
    • Harris’ booklet on the age-old debate between free will and determinism is not bad, but it fails to really reach any effective purpose. Though the writing is up to Harris’ standards, the arguments he puts forth are sometimes cloudy and inconsistent. My friend Cody has written a more in-depth review of the book here. Overall, this is a decent primer for people interested in the subject, but there are much better and more thorough books out there.


  • On Inequality – (Harry G. Frankurt)
    • I gave this book five stars on Goodreads for some reason. Looking back now, I can’t for the life of me decide why (other than that it was well-written, short enough to be accessible to the layman like myself, and provided me with a viewpoint very contrary to my own position [which I find important and yet all-too-often I neglect in my choice of books]). Frankfurt seems, honestly, to miss the point of the entire discussion and to settle instead on the semantic debate over whether or not “actual, pure equality among every person” is attainable—which is, of course, something that no one is even advocating.


  • A Manner of Being: Writers on Their Mentors – (Annie Liontas, ed.)
    • As are most collections, this is a hodgepodge of hit-or-miss essays by writers on the people (or sometimes things) who have come alongside them and improved their writing in some way. A significant amount of these are, in my opinion, abortive and unhelpful. But an equal amount are genuinely uplifting, challenging, or freeing in some way. Still, this work is probably only of interest to writers (or maybe artists in general).


  • The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century – (Steven Pinker)
    • Admittedly, Pinker’s book is the first style-guide-type writing book I’ve ever read. Still, I find it hard to believe that another will surpass its importance and influence on my writing life. Pinker doesn’t just give you arbitrary rules about writing. Instead he lays out why those rules exist, why they are sometimes okay to break, and how to judge those situations for yourself. An absolutely essential read for any writer.


  • Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking – (David Bayles and Ted Orland)
    • This short booklet helped me through a rough and unproductive time. My basic takeaway is the mantra of the book: to paraphrase, your work is that work which no one else can do; you must do your work. Read it whenever you feel down about your art, or whenever you need that extra motivation.


  • A Brief History of Time – (Stephen Hawking)
    • I debated over whether or not to recommend this one. It’s already so well-known and lauded, and it is (by nature of its accessibility) such an oversimplification of the subject matter. However, I could not bring myself to deny a recommendation to the seminal work of one of our planet’s smartest humans. Plus, it is actually very interesting.

the controversial books**

**I have separated these books by Gerald Posner because of the plagiarism and inaccurate sourcing controversies that have surrounded Posner in recent years. I read these two books before knowing that, and so this alters and colors my opinion of his work. I’ll give a brief review of each book, but the presence of such controversies means that I cannot in good conscience give a recommendation (which is a shame, because he was going to be one of the major recommendations in this list).


  • God’s Bankers: A History of Money and Power at the Vatican – (Gerald Posner)
    • This book about the moneyed interests within the Roman Catholic Church was so well-written, evenly-paced, and researched that it sparked within me a desire to read more nonfiction. If not for the controversy surrounding Posner, this would be my number two recommendation after Piketty’s book.


  • Secrets of the Kingdom: The Inside Story of the Secret Saudi—U.S. Connection – (Gerald Posner)
    • A fascinating and deeply disturbing discussion on our nation’s questionable relationship with the Saudi royal family, with a dissection of the Kingdom’s entanglement with Wahhabism, Posner’s book is seemingly crucial to understanding modern global politics.

books of poetry


  • 100 Best-Loved Poems – (Philip Smith, ed.)
    • A compilation of, well, best-loved poems from history, this book is a good way to get oneself into the swing of reading poetry.


  • High Windows – (Philip Larkin)
    • Larkin was a poetic giant, and this work is one of his best. A master of turns of phrase, he is required reading for anyone who enjoys poetry.



  • The Familiar, vol. 1-3 – (Mark Z. Danielewski)
  1. One Rainy Day in May
  2. Into the Forest
  3. Honeysuckle and Pain

    • Danielewski is one of the most experimental writers of our time, having written the wonderful House of Leaves and the (in my opinion) unreadable Only Revolutions. This series—a twenty-some volume work reportedly about Los Angeles—features a more straightforward narrative split between the viewpoints of different characters. Regardless of whether or not his constant experimentation suits you, Danielewski’s mastery of the written word is undeniable. The man can write better than almost anyone I’ve read. The Familiar is a testament to this fact, its prose weighty and complex and beautiful. Highly, highly, highly recommend to anyone who enjoys weird speculative fiction.


  • The First Law, books 1-3 – (Joe Abercrombie)
  1. The Blade Itself
  2. Before They Are Hanged
  3. Last Argument of Kings
    • Abercrombie is a new name to me, but his story is captivating. Though a bit slow to start, the character development and worldbuilding is very good. This series is not for the faint of heart, as the violence and despair of its world seeps out of every page. That said, the books have that page-turning quality that every writer seeks to employ. I look forward to reading more works by Abercrombie in the future.


  • Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? – (Philip K. Dick)
    • Moviegoers should recognize this as the basis for the film Blade Runner, and not much else needs to be said. Though his writing is often blasé, Dick is unquestionably a pioneer of modern science fiction, and the ideas expressed in his stories are examples of incredible worldbuilding and philosophical thinking.


  • Survival of the Fittest: Metamorphosis – (Johnny Pearce)
    • Full disclosure: I know Pearce and read the book at his request. That said, this apocalyptic zombie story manages to ground the reader in real, visceral fears. Instead of the sometimes detached and lofty philosophical ideations of, say, a Philip K. Dick, Pearce deals with philosophy and religion within the context of zombie horror as experienced by normal, everyday people. There is something enjoyable about a horror novel that emphasizes the mundane—somehow this can have the strange effect of heightening the tension.


  • Louder Than Words: 22 Authors Donate New Stories to Benefit Share Our Strength’s Fight Against Hunger, Homelessness, and Illiteracy – (William Shore, ed.)
    • This collection of short stories—which is as old as I am, coincidentally—contains both some real gems and some very mediocre works. I picked the collection up for a few bucks at a local used bookstore, and I don’t regret spending that money. But, frankly, the fact that original purchasers of the book bought it largely for charity, well, makes sense.


  • The Wheel of Time series, books 5-6 – (Robert Jordan)
      • The Fires of Heaven
      • Lord of Chaos
    • I have a complicated relationship with the WoT series. Jordan’s pacing is too slow, his worldbuilding is often repetitive, and his characters are largely too similar to each other. However, the world itself is so fascinating, the “magic” element so well-designed, that I continue to push through the slow parts. (For reference, though, I’ve been stuck on book 7 since this summer, so…). I recommend it for fantasy aficionados willing to expend lots of grace and patience.


  • Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell – (Susanna Clarke)
    • This book defies categorization. Obviously it is fantasy, but it contains elements of both a narrative and a stuffy history textbook (at least, as stuffy as it can be while discussing the fascinating subject of English Magic). In parts wry humor and tragedy, the book is unbelievably well-written and well-designed. It took me two tries to get into it, but honestly I’m not sure why I didn’t immediately fasten my nose to the page. Highly recommended.

graphic novels


  • Locke and Key, vol. 1-5 – (Joe Hill and Gabriel Rodriguez)
  1. Welcome to Lovecraft
  2. Head Games
  3. Crown of Shadows
  4. Keys to the Kingdom
  5. Clockworks
    • Illustrated by Rodriguez and written by Hill (Stephen King’s son), this story is wonderfully paced and beautifully whimsical even in its stark horror. All I will say re: plot is that it revolves around a family mansion and strange keys. I’ve yet to finish the series, as there is a sixth book I need to read, but each volume feels nearly perfectly resolved.


  • SAGA, vol. 1-3 – (Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples)
    • The writing of Vaughan and the artwork of Staples are perfectly wedded in this amazing sci-fi romp. Told from the perspective of a child about her parents, the story is surprisingly adult, sometimes raunchy, often hilarious, hugely insightful, and always interesting. I do not want to finish the series—I need to finish it. This highlights the main problem with graphic novels and comics—this series is not yet finished, and so I have to pace myself while not going insane with the wait.


  • Through the Woods – (Emily Carroll)
    • This is a unique compilation of five stories written and illustrated by the author. In the desire to make you interested, I’ll say that Carroll’s story have some of the horror of H.P. Lovecraft, and some of the pacing of those old Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark books by Alvin Schwartz. However, this is a bit of disservice. Carroll’s style is very much her own, and her stories revel in the horror of the unknown.



  • Darths and Droids – (The Comic Irregulars)
    • Inspired by Shamus Young’s DM of the Rings (which recast the Lord of the Rings series as if the characters were players in a game of Dungeons and Dragons, and which I still—to my shame—have yet to read), Darths and Droids does the same thing with the Star Wars series. The current series covers the original trilogy and the prequels, as the writers wish to wait awhile before working on the new sequel-trilogy. Anyway, if you read one webcomic in your life, this probably should be it.