Finding Angel by Kat Heckenbach: A Review

            The first time I met Kat, she was wearing more rings and ear cuffs than I could count, a headband that barely kept back a mass of curly reddish hair, and a black shirt with red letters that read ‘vampires don’t sparkle.’

            “Are you Kat?” I asked, eyeing the stacks of Finding Angel she was plunking down on a long table in the conference bookstore.

            “Yes!” she exclaimed, dropped her last stack, came round the end of the table, and enfolded me in a hug.

            Needless to say, we hit it off.

            To be fair, we had actually hit it off a few months before on Facebook when she asked for character Pinterest boards and I showed her my treasure trove. Our newfound friendship was sorely tested, however, when she began keeping a running count of days until the conference on my Facebook wall when I really didn’t want to be reminded. Becky Minor kept the peace by assuring me she would have smelling salts handy at the conference, which assuaged my fears. (Well, not really, but it at least made me realize I wasn’t the only nervous one.)

            Finding Angel was one of the few books written by conference attendees that I managed to finish before the actual conference rolled around. (I had a half-read copy of Merlin’s Blade in my dorm room the whole time. Sorry, Mr. Treskillard.) When I saw Kat’s disappointed status recently, saying she’d had a dream that Finding Angel got another review, I decided to surprise her. (Are you surprised? Well are ya?)

Overall: 3.5 stars

Finding Angel is the story of a girl separated from her magical heritage. She lives a normal life, until pieces of her past begin to catch up with her. A beetle, a charm bracelet, a boy with silver eyes…they all lead her back to Toch Island, the place of her birth, and her strange powers, which may help Angel solve the mysterious disappearances around the island – or reveal her to the evil man who desperately wants to find her.

This was a light, fun read with unique settings, new twists on the old fantasy elements, and a sojourn into a world where worldviews have consequences.

Concept: 4 stars

On the surface, this is your ordinary science-justified magic story. Dig a little deeper, and you’ll find such delightful creatures as fractal chameleons, modern-day unicorns, and elves with their own rock bands. During my mentoring session with Kat (though it felt more like a chance for us to sit down alone and fangirl about – well, everything) I reflected that when you meet creative people, you rarely fit them with their work on the first try. Perhaps it’s the preponderance of introverted authors, but usually it takes a little while for you to see their creativity shining through. Not so with Kat. When she started talking, I immediately saw through to the mind that created Toch Island – a flamboyant, colorful, I-don’t-care-what-you-think kind of mind.

Plot: 3 stars

Unfortunately, this book suffered from a case of SMS, or Sagging Middle Syndrome. The first third was good. The last third was great. The middle – not so much. For all that it was neatly paced, with things speeding up toward the climax (as they should), I felt Angel spent a little too much time socializing, training, and playing with animals. Of course, this may be due to my allergic reaction anything approaching relaxation or warm fuzzy feelings. Give me TRAGEDEHHH!

That said, I loved the way the clues to the mystery were sprinkled through the story. It was one of those “aw, shoulda seen that coming,” moments.

Characters: 2.5 stars

My favorite books are usually the ones where I can tell you what the characters would do months later. Few live up to that hope – Incarceron, and Outlander, and The Restorer. The trouble with Finding Angel was that I wanted to love the characters – they were unpredictable, they were human, and they drove the story well. However, I had trouble telling their personalities apart, especially the main characters. This is something I suffer from myself. Besides a few overarching characteristics, my FMC often plays hard-to-get and I end up having to make her behave the way she needs to for the sake of the plot. (Odd thing, actually wishing the characters would take the scene and run with it.) But oh well; that’s what development and rewrites are for.

Technical: 3.5 stars

Technical details are not something I pay a great deal of attention to unless there is a profusion of mistakes. I have a rather different method of dealing with them than most. Some people claim to throw the books, or yell, or write the author nasty letters. I sigh. If it’s really bad, it earns a closed-eyed sigh. Woe to the book that elicits such a response! Since I don’t recall any sighing for the duration of this book, I think it was clean of any glaring errors. (This, folks, is why you don’t write a book review months after reading the book.)

Execution: 3 stars

While not the most vivid writing I’ve ever read, the style of Finding Angel is clean, uncluttered work full of unique elements. In future works, greater attention could be paid to expanding the scenes and adding more action – not necessarily swashbuckling action, as I don’t think that would fit – but more action by the characters instead of so much summary. Still, it was a bold, admirable endeavor. Also, the author is delightful. Can I add extra points for the fractal chameleons? Thank you.

The Zone

       Once upon a time there was a hermit. But this was no ordinary hermit. She lived out on a prairie covered with corn and soybeans and could count seven houses and a highway from her front yard. She smiled and laughed with neighbors and family when they came to call, ran her siblings in a wagon along a driveway so old the rocks had snuggled into each other and grown rims of fluffy moss and clover like old ladies' hair.
        But mostly, she listened.
        To people. To their sorrows, their joys. To birds and wind and water, and the precise sound the motorcycles made when they rumbled past the house on a soft spring evening.
        Then, she described.
        To herself, in her mind. Or jotted down carefully in one of a dozen notebooks. Or murmured like a charm when there was no one else to hear. Tapped out on the keys of her precious, battered laptop, or shared with her mother, who understood those things.
        But never had she gone out.
        She had heard of others who had. Scattered across the many thousands of miles of her land, others of her kind had emerged here and there every so often in a flurry of crazed activity - cicadas, making a lot of noise and a lot of bustle for a few weeks before everything quieted down to normal again.
        That's nice, she thought, watching them from a distance. Maybe I'll go when I'm ready.
        But it came too soon.
        Realm Makers.

         Those two words were enough to strike dread and fierce exhilaration into her little hermit heart. Her own people, gathering, this summer, less than two hours away. Imagine the opportunity. The enlightenment. The fellowship.
         "They're having a costume dinner," she whimpered.
         But her quiet, devious brain whispered doubts to her quiet, timid heart. What if they don't like you? What if you embarrass yourself? What if you can't think of anything to say?
          "What if your head explodes," her mother said practically. "If you want to go, go."
         "But -"
         "No."
          She woke up early one morning two weeks later with those two words pounding around in her head.
         Realm Makers. Realm Makers.
         She looked at her calendar.
          Less than two weeks left to sign her life away.
         Or at least, two terrifying days of it.
         She scribbled out her thoughts in frustration, alone in the half-light but for the birds and her purple pencil and her trusty thesaurus. Because even now, she wanted to get the words right.
         She laid down her paper and stared up at the ceiling. Her sister rolled over and threw an arm over her. She smiled. She was happy here.
         But weren't people always saying to get out of the zone?
         Your comfort zone?
         She wondered what it was like out there.
         She clutched her thesaurus to her heart and whispered, "What should I do?"

E

Mineswept

I'm addicted to Minesweeper.

No, really.

I was tempted to post a picture of myself attempting to play the advanced version, but I decided not to be deceptive. Truth is, I'm not even very good at it. It frustrates me. I tell myself I'm building up a tolerance for numbers (something not included in my particular brain package, evidently), that I'm learning logic (if this mine is here, then it can't be here, so I can click here ... whoops) and that I'm familiarizing myself with the level of graphics on my new laptop.

See, it came with these cool sound effects, and all the mines blow up when you find one, and it even has a "Flower Garden" mode for the people who can't handle the violence mines entail ...

Ahem. Sorry. Point is -- I couldn't hide this from myself for long -- I'm procrastinating. I almost always have a word document open in the background that I can't stand to face. At least, not yet. Just one more game.

When it's not Minesweeper, it's electronic chess, or solitare, or you-name-it. The fact that my fans are clamoring for the full edited first draft sometimes does light a fire under me, but there are those times when nothing will come together. So I resort to that lovely little game icon on my taskbar.

"So be careful to do what the LORD your God has commanded you; do not turn aside to the right or to the left..." (Deuteronomy 5:32)

Sigh.

Writing/revision is tricky and exhausting. So is my mind. I will go to no end to convince myself that I am doing something productive when I'm really just wasting my precious time. A little aside here, I do think that the occasional game break is good. Get your mind off the story, get a fresh look. Chess, minesweeper, whatever your procrastination method is, go for it. Just make sure to come back after a reasonable amount of time? Please?

*makes note to self and resolutely glues the word document to her screen*

Lesson 2: Grammar is Everything

When I was very (very) small, when I'd finished anything I would shout very (very) loudly to whomever was in the house at the moment, "III'MM DOOOONNEE!"

My dutiful father instructed me on the basics of grammar. He bent down on a level with me, his lips quirking in an attempt not to smile. "You aren't something cooking. You are a person, and you finished something. Ok?"

"III'MM FIIIINNIISHEEED!"

"A little quieter, muffin."

So on an afternoon not long before the New Year, I sat, pen in hand, on my bed with the shades closed and a dramatic aura of determination surrounding me. I was supposed to be doing my chores, but this was too epic to interrupt.

(I might mention that this is around ten years AFTER said incident.)

I wasn't in any particular hurry. I didn't feel especially ready to laugh or cry or even gasp in relief as my pencil scratched out the final words:

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't lose hope."
The dark elf turned to me, pulled me closer, holding me as if he would do so forever. "I never have."

I sat up and rolled my pencil to rest in the crook of the pages. I glanced around the room, mildly surprised to see that nothing had exploded. Then I pulled in a deep breath and bellowed: "IIII'MM FIIIINNIISHEEED!"

This is how my new year came in. Unfortunately I didn't have the opportunity to yell that while the entire family was asleep at midnight on January 1, but this was good enough. Mom was looking at me funny by the time I came in to where she was sitting. "What?"

"Hey! Hey! Hey guess what I did!!"

She rolled her eyes. "What?"

I held up the bright purple notebook to give her a clue.

"You didn't."

"I did!"

She jumped up, smile as wide as ever. "I wanna read it!!"

Whatever else I have, I can count on devoted fans. Little did I know my father's well-meaning instruction would inspire a lifetime of fussiness over grammar. And spelling. And other various aspects of writing.

If only he knew what he started.

Design!

Just a little middle-of-the-week post to tell y'all to check out my new blog design. Like the header? My mother, beloved Kimberly *chuckle* and I made it this morning. Quite wintry, no? I was inspired by Squeaks' beautiful design over at Hidden Doorways. Check her out too. *waves madly to Squeaks*

I have also been successful in designing some outfits for my Elf/Elvarian dancers to wear at the party in the end of my book. Not the most important thing on my agenda, but *shrug* I'm getting there. I finally settled on a design with a rather blousy cut. Three parts; a jacket, pants, and an undertunic. The pants are cut just above the ankle and the leg slants upward. I was thinking something that wouldn't obstruct movement and something that they wouldn't trip over or step on. The jacket is in the same sort of design, open at the front with embroidery down the right sleeve, while the pants have embroidery down the left leg. I'll upload a pic if you guys want one. ;) Also settled on the colors green/gold for one outfit and crimson/white for the other. (Those represent Iri and Aaron respectively, for those of you who know them.)

While I'm here, let me share a couple of verses that touched my heart this week:

¹³ For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
¹⁶ Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

No matter how hard we slave over our works, whether they be novels or graphics or a malfunctioning blender, we can always be humbled by the fact that God did it first and best. Since we are created in His image, how much can we achieve by glorifying Him in our works? The best is yet to come.

Elizabeth

Lesson 1 -- No Throwing Frozen Vegetables

"Where are the peas?"

"Mmmm, check the freezer. Top drawer."

I stooped over the white metal container -- which was, at the moment, belching frigid air -- and searched for the elusive vegetable. A moment later my hand closed on the bulging plastic bag, twisted closed at the top and emblazoned with a deceptively green picture of peas the size of golf balls. Solid as a rock!

I shoved at the drawer with my knee and it closed with a satisfying thunk. "They're frozen."

My mother turned from her post beside the stove and pushed yet another strand of rebellious brown hair behind her ear. "We might have expected that."

I turned to look at the pot of simmering garbanzo beans, potatoes, and onions that constituted an Indian Spiced Potato Salad. "Can't put them in there like this," I muttered. "I wonder..."

Without stopping to consult her, I gave an extra twist to the top of the bag and dropped it to the floor. Mom jumped. I waited for an extra tense few seconds to make sure the peas weren't going to explode all over the floor. Delighted, I picked it up again. A few of the peas rolled around under my fingers; the rest of them stubbornly stuck into an impenetrable lump of ice.
Mom glared at me with a dubious, playful air. "I wouldn't do that..."

It must be understood that my mother is not your common person (those of you who have seen her antics on Facebook know this well). It isn't that she means something totally different from what she says, it's just ... okay, maybe it is. In any case, I knew both of us would enjoy it, so I dropped it again, sort of cringing and knowing that it would be too good to be true if they didn't spill this time.

Well, not too good, after all. There lay the bag of peas on the floor, unmarred. I bent to pick it up, laughing softly. Sweet!

Rolling the bag around in my hand, I noticed a rather large lump of unsurpassedly stubborn peas still stuck near the edge. Feeling confident by now I lifted it above my head to drop it again. Mom raised an eyebrow. "Don't push it."

"But -- "

"Think your luck'll hold, punk?" she teased, poking me. She stepped back and watched.

I dropped it.

Oh, woe to those who do not listen to the whispering, nagging little voice in the back of their heads! The bag of peas plummeted downward towards the tiled floor, and in that instant I knew I had gone too far. Still ... there was a chance that the tiny little twist of the bag top would hold ... and after this I wouldn't do it again. Hold...hold...

It held, alright.

It was the bottom of the bag that didn't.

And all of a sudden there were tiny green planets spinning all around the galaxy of fake-marble floor. I groaned. Mom tried to hide a laugh behind her hand. "I'm not helping you pick those up."

"I know that," I said, grabbing a bowl. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

What you don't know is that the day before, I had spent a rather lengthy day at the playground, jumping over things, running along a miniature train track, pulling myself across the monkey bars, and generally setting myself up for very, very sore muscles the next day. As a result getting down in the floor in pursuit of the peas was rather painful, and associated with a lot of grunting and groaning and several bouts of "ow, ow, ow", usually with each one a note higher on the chromatic scale. Of course these were all laughed at by my mom who was triumphantly grinning and standing over me with a wooden spoon in her hand. The little random comments given in a richly sarcastic tone did little more for my pride. Things like "I thought you listened better than that" and "Do you need your hearing checked?" and "I can't wait to see this become a Facebook status!"

"Oh no," I muttered, pushing myself to my feet with a bowl full of thwarted peas in my hand and a defeated smirk on my face. "This one's getting a blog post."