Sunday, January 15, 2023

Apollo Weeps by Xian Mao


 I'm pleased to announce the release of Apollo Weeps, a novella by Xian Mao, in both print and e-book editions. The novella is the eighty-sixth volume in Aqueduct's Conversation Pieces series. It's available now at

Read a sample of the book here.

Owl thought they had left their hometown in Iowa for good, but the promise of a story hidden in the catacombs of the historic Cassandra Theater brings them back fifteen years later. The story is not centered on the theater itself, however, but on Madeleine Grey, the theater's star actress and Owl's high school crush, and her twisted family tree.

Apollo Weeps is a love letter to theater and the twisting plots of Stephen Sondheim musicals. It is a modern adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera, as well as a meditation on race in America: Owl, a transracial Chinese adoptee, uncovers a story about a Black actor in the Midwest and the generational trauma his descendants face.

Across generations, a family tree's roots run deep.

Friday, January 13, 2023

The Pleasures of Reading, Viewing, and Listening in 2022, pt. 32: Arrate Hidalgo


Reading Pleasures in 2022

by Arrate Hidalgo


For this year's pleasures series, I’m sticking to books. The amount of reading I've done this year is of course unmatched by the amount of show-watching, but I’ve been able to return to reading for pleasure at a rate I had been missing for a while. Below I list some of those books and the reasons why I picked them (besides the fact that they’re available in English, which left some Spanish and all Basque titles out. Do ask if you’re interested in those).

 I wish us all a kind entry into 2023.


Dead Collections - Isaac Fellman

Why: the vampire everydayness and the obvious passion for archival thinking and difficult conversations.


Shadow & Claw (The first half of The Book of the New Sun) - Gene Wolfe

Why: the hints at our present and the unreliability of the narrator. Plus the language.


Hamnet - Maggie O'Farrell

Why: the author’s ability to transmit the way things smell. And the beautiful Spanish translation by Concha Cardeñoso.


My Tender Matador (Tengo miedo torero) - Pedro Lemebel (translation from Spanish by Katherine Silver)

Why: the lovely mix of frills and toughness, the vertigo of some scenes.


Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World - Linda Hogan

Why: the richness of non-human histories lovingly passed on.


Love - Toni Morrison

Why: the characters’ voices popping out of the book.


Precursor (Foreigner saga # 4) – C. J. Cherryh

Why: the atevi. Always the atevi.


Bad Girls (Las malas)  - Camila Sosa Villada (translation from Spanish by Kit Maude)

Why: the survival of magic in the face of cruelty and unimaginativeness.



My Sister, the Serial Killer - Oyinkan Braithwaite

Why: the dark comedy and thrills mixed with sisterly love.


Unbecoming - Lesley Wheeler

Why: the ease with which it creeps up and inconspicuously topples normality.


The Death of Vivek Oji - Akwaeke Emezi

Why: the life contained at the core despite immense unfolding grief.


Heart Berries - Terese Marie Mailhot

Why: the sting of truth and unapologetic prose.


Bonus: Mothers don't (Amek ez dute) - Katixa Agirre (translation from Spanish by Katie Whittemore)

Why: I already explained, but it’s in English now.


Extra bonus: Book of Travels  - Might & Delight (I cheated, this is a video game!)

Why: the sense of wonder it achieves like no other video game I recall in recent memory.


 Among other things,  Arrate Hidalgo is Associate Editor at Aqueduct Press. She is also an English to Spanish translator, an founder and organizer of a feminist sf con, and an amateur singer. Visit her website at Her English-language translation of the Basque science fiction classic, Memories of Tomorrow, by Mayi Pelot, was released by Aqueduct Press in 2022 as a volume in Aqueduct's Heirloom Book series.

Wednesday, January 11, 2023

The Pleasures of Reading, Viewing, and Listening in 2022, pt. 31: Ritch Calvin


Pleasures of Reading, 2022

by Ritch Calvin




--It’s really one of the best parts of the job.

 Part the First

 Another year, another year of prepping to teach classes. This past semester (Fall 2022), I taught two Feminist Theory classes. One of the most time-consuming aspects of teaching is the prep work. Whenever I create a new syllabus, I read three to four times as many works as I eventually include on the syllabus. For a graduate seminar, that would typically mean 30-35 essays on the syllabus and 2 or 3 books. That would mean that I read somewhere between 90 and 140 essays and between 6 and 12 books in preparation. Narrowing down that list of possible texts is sometimes painful. And then, of course, I re-read the selected texts in a much more intentional and directed way when the day of the actual class arrives.

 This semester, the course focused on two interrelated topics: epistemology and linguistics. How exciting is it to read and catch up on developments in the fields of epistemology and linguistics? Very.

Regarding epistemology, we included the foundational thinkers and ideas. We began by discussing Plato’s notion of “justified true belief” (Theaetetus) and worked our way through René Descartes’s notion of “cogito ergo sum” (Meditation II). However, we spent most of the time discussing feminist, BIPOC, queer, and trans interventions into the field. Early feminist epistemologists, such as Lorraine Code and Sandra Harding, thought about ways to make epistemology work in less biased ways, and their interventions made certain re-conceptualizations possible. Traditional western epistemology constructed the very idea of knowledge upon a universalized, knowing Subject. And, as you might expect, that disembodied knowing Subject looked a lot like the men who presupposed him. Code, in particular, directly challenged that notion by asking “Is the Sex of the Knower Epistemically Significant?” That question went a long way to challenge and undermine the assumption of a disembodied, male Subject. What if the knower is a woman? Does that make a difference regarding truth? What if the knower is Black? Is queer? Is trans? What difference would these subject positions, these loci of enunciation, matter?

Sandra Harding (“Feminist Standpoint Epistemology”) sets out the ways in which knowledge should begin with the lives of marginalized individuals and could, thereby, create a closer approximation of the truth. Lanita Jacobs-Huey (“Epistemological Deliberations”) argues that black women’s hair opens a space to rethink politics of the body and marginalized knoweldge. Uma Narayan (“The Project of Feminist Epistemology”) points to the ways in which non-Western subjectivities complicate the knowing subject, along with the dangers of occupying two different knowledge systems. Susan Wendell “Feminism, Disability, and the Transcendence of the Body”) begins with the disabled body and illustrates the ways in which the relationship between body and mind is complicated by the body in chronic pain. Wendell’s transcendence is not the same as Descartes’s. K. Q. Hall (“Queer Epistemology and Epistemic Injustice”) discusses some of the ways in which an epistemology that begins with queer bodies illustrates the ways in which the knowledge of queer folx is discounted.

 And, yet.

 And, yet, recent scholarship has shifted away from the very idea that knowledge is an individual proposition. I mean, that’s been the model in the west for a long time, hasn’t it? Each of us, as individuals, learn about the world. Imagine Mary Shelley’s Monster (Frankenstein), newly brought to life, wandering around the countryside, making sense of the world. As he stumbles around, he learns—on his own—the particulars of how the world and people work. Well, that’s a fiction and not the reality of most people’s lives. We live among other humans, and we learn and validate knowledge as a community. It’s a stimulating idea.


Patricia Hill Collins (“Toward an Afrocentric Epistemology”<>)—perhaps not quite deliberately—opens the door for a non-individual epistemology. Recently, some scholars have argued that the knowledge that we have is not produced by individuals but by communities. Everything we know comes from the community (family, neighborhood, town, country, biology, literary scholarship, LGBTQ activism). What does it mean to displace the individual from the center?


Regarding linguistics, we also began with some foundational thinkers and ideas, including Ferdinand de Saussure’s notion of the separation of signifier and signified (Course in General Linguistics) and Sapir and Whorf’s notion of linguistic relativity (Language, Thought, Reality). An underlying idea was that the world existed outside of us, that a collection of words exist (in any given language) that correspond to that reality. We, as speakers of language, enter into that system of signs and, significantly, those words shape the reality we understand the reality that we see. Writers such as Robin Lakoff (Language and Woman’s Place) and Dale Spender (Man-Made Language) illuminate some of the ways in which language contains a bias and how that bias affects women’s lives. They argue that language was made by men and benefited men. This “man-made language” had to go. As above, women, BIPOC, queer, and trans writers look for “women’s language,” “gay and lesbian language,” “bisexual language,” and “trans language.” They look for the effects of white, cishet patriarchal language, for authentic selves, and for modes of resistance.


Paul Baker’s (Polari) offers a history of the “secret language of gay men” in England. Polari, with a long history, was used by gay men to both signal inclusion in the community and to remain secret in public. Don Kulik’s (“Gay and Lesbian Language”) catalogues words and expressions used by gay men and lesbians in the US. Birch Moonwomon-Baird (“Toward a Theory of Lesbian Speech”) conducts experiments to determine what ways—if any—lesbian speech differs from non-lesbian speech. Buso Makoni (“Black Female Scholarship Matters”) points to the ways in which research and publication about language has been—and remains—white, US centered.

 And, yet. Recent scholarship was shifted away from “authentic” languages and from top-down models of the control of language. Instead, much recent work has partaken of “discourse analysis.” Discourse—that ubiquitous noun that seems to float in the air. While traditional linguistics focused on the sentence (how is it formed, how is it parsed, etc.), discourse includes everything “beyond the sentence.” For example, William Leap (“Queer Linguistics As Critical Discourse”) looks at the ways in which the discourse about queer folx disrupts our normative notions of gender. And Lex Konnelly (“Nuance and Normativity in Trans Linguistic Research”) examines the ways in which trans individuals must linguistically negotiate the medical professions. They must utilize language carefully in order to be “read” by doctors and to receive the kinds of affirming care they need.

 It’s a brave new world. Women, feminist, BIPOC, queer, and trans thinkers and writers have really transformed the theoretical landscape.


Part the Second

Apart from teaching, I also worked on a new book, a sequel (as it were) to last year’s Queering SF: Readings. For this new project, I focused on queer SF comics for a book I hope to call Queering SF Comics: Readings. And, much like with prepping for a class, prepping for a book entails a lot of reading. But how exciting is it to read piles of comics for a book project? Very.

The current manuscript contains 45 chapters. In order to write the 45 chapters, I read more than 60 comics—all published since 2010. Not 60 individual issues of a comic (which run approximately 24 pages each). No, 60+ full series and/or graphic novels. Granted, some series consisted of as few as 6 issues. In fact, though, most of the others were considerably longer—up to as many as 800 pages (thanks, Paper Girls).

 Some of the works that I eliminated from the final manuscript include Steven Universe (2014-2020), a massive comic with an important place in the history of queer comics, but it has already drawn a considerable amount of attention; QU33R (2014) is a large and lovely anthology, though too little of it was clearly SF or fantasy; Embodied (2021) is “an intersectional feminist comics poetry anthology, though, again, it is not consistently SF or fantasy. Highly recommended, though. La Borinqueña (2016-2020) is a multipart series that is a nice addition to the superhero trope, but offers only minor queer characters. Pinoy Monster Boyfriend Anthology (2017) is an independently produced book which also did not consistently meet the criteria. I also eliminated both Star Wars: Doctor Aphra (2017-2022) and Shuri: The Search for Black Panther (2019). For one, I already include a number of Marvel and DC comics. For another, they are prominent titles, by prominent writers, connected to large franchises. I suspect they will get attention elsewhere.


In the end I included two from Marvel (Angela: Asgard’s Assassin and América Chávez: Made in the USA) and two from DC Comics (Primer and I Am Not Starfire). Three of those works fit into the larger Marvel and DC universes, and, as such, I find them to be a bit constrained. Primer is a YA comic and develops a new superhero and so has a bit more leeway.


Beyond the two major publishers, a number of second-tier publishers are producing fantastic work. Those publishers include Black Mask (The Wilds and Kim & Kim), IDW (The Infinite Loop), Image Comics (ODY-C, SfSx, Crowded, Kaptara, and Paper Girls), Dark Horse Comics (Killer Queens and Barbalien: Red Planet), and BOOM! Comics (Joyride and Alienated).


Several non-comic publishers have also gotten into the game. Feminist Press published Apsara Engine, while Scholastic published Girl from the Sea. Two subsidiaries, Amulet Books (Pixels of You) and Little Bee (Always Human) also published YA graphic novels.


Webcomics continue to flourish. Some (Decrypting Rita and Inhibit) were webcomics that were published in book form. The online form of Decrypting Rita make amazing use of online capabilities. The comic scrolls as one continuous strip. The printed book takes an elongated form, though it cannot do the webcomic justice. Other comics remained online (Galanthus, Love Circuits, and Crossed Wires).


The self-published comic series and graphic novels include Slice of Life, Contact High, Inhibit, Don’t Go without Me, and Decrypting Rita. FTL, Y’ll! bears special mention. It was funded through a Kickstarter campaign. While works funded through Kickstarter were once dismissed, they are becoming more common and more accepted. Perhaps most importantly, they have become a way to pay writers and artists an above-market rate.


I find much to love about these comics. For one, they are giving space to qfeminist, BIPOC, and queer creators. Whereas larger publishers long rejected their work, these smaller publishing outlets provide a much-needed venue. For another, they give space to queer and queer of color characters. They are no longer relegated to the funny sidekick who, ultimately, has to sacrifice or to die to allow the protagonist to carry on. No, they are front and center. They are varied in backgrounds, storylines, and outcomes. For another still, they give voice to queer storylines. In some cases (for example, Marvel’s Angela and Far Sector), the comic features a queer character, but that fact barely figures into the story. Not true in most of these stories. Finally, what I love the most about them, are the ways in which they are fundamentally changing the comic industry. They are throwing down the gauntlet. They are upping the stakes. They are making it impossible for large publishers—for all publishers—to ignore formerly marginalized characters and stories.


Part the Third

 Just how do these two things cohere? To be clear, they don’t really need to do so. Nevertheless, I think they do.

 (1) Consider epistemology. Feminist, BIPOC, and queer scholars have argued that different kinds of knowledge, different kinds of truths are produced via different Subjects. They have argued that the truth, that our understanding of the world have been too narrowly imagined. What happens, then, when queer and BIPOC creators offer their stories? What portions of the world do we now see? What formerly marginalized perspectives now take center stage? For example, the writers of SfSx (Safe Sex), offer a storyline shaped by the experiences and knowledge of sex workers. They see things differently. Similarly, the writers of Barbalien offer a take on the AIDS crisis, Otherness, and community in (an analog of) San Francisco. The individual discovers the importance and the wisdom of the community. It is a powerful paean.

(2) Consider linguistics. Feminist, BIPOC, and queer scholars have argued that the words we use and the words used about us make a difference. The teaching comic A Quick and Easy Guide to They/Them Pronouns offers a tutorial about the history and significance of using appropriate pronouns. The comic is only tangentially science fiction, though it does try to imagine a future in which pronouns are no longer an issue but standard practice. What would that world look like? In Galanthus, the very young human Farah finds herself on a ship crewed by a range of aliens. Perhaps because the aliens are all so different from one another, they are always aware of pronouns. For them, asking for and respecting pronouns is simply a way of life. On the other hand, in The Pride, the group of queer superheroes interact with kids on the street. White Trash addresses a young man’s believe that White Trash cannot be a “faggot” because he kicked the bad guys’ ass. A lot to unpack there. But the words used matter.


(3) Consider the superhero trope. Imagine the global politics of 1939. Fascism on the rise. Massive immigration. A looming world war. Technological developments that pose an existential risk. (Hmm. Wait, that sounds familiar!) Superman emerges, the one who can restore democracy, the one who can end the war and save us all. That figure has persisted ever since, and, unless you’ve been living in an isolated cave with no wifi, you would know that the superhero figure thrives in 2022. I can’t even count the number of superhero comics and movies that have been released in the past decade. (And the day I was writing this, Donald Trump publicly announced that “America needs a superhero.”)


The queer SF comics also—unsurprisingly—feature a lot of superheroes. Sometimes that superhero fits the historical model, but sometimes, they break it. And they break it in interesting ways. In The Pride, the team of all-queer superheroes must learn to think and work as a community. Individual actions threaten the team—and by extension the world. In the future world of Inhibit, superheroes are a common thing. But young Victor (some interesting ties to Victor Frankenstein here!) is a failed superhero. He’s warehoused in a school for failures, but those “failures” include a lot of queer kids who just see things differently. What does it mean for a queer kid to “fail” at superhero? In Strong Female Protagonist, we find another reluctant superhero. Alison rejects the very premise. She argues that superheroes fix nothing. Instead, she argues for larger systemic change. Which is precisely what our feminist, BIPOC, and queer epistemologists and linguists have been suggesting.


So, not really “reading for pleasure,” whatever that means. It was all reading for work, but what a pleasure.


Ritch Calvin (he/him) has published essays in Extrapolation, Femspec, Science Fiction Film and Television, Science Fiction Studies, New York Review of Science Fiction, and SFRA Review. His bibliography of the works of Octavia E. Butler appeared in Utopian Studies in 2008. His first edited collection, on Gilmore Girls, appeared in 2007. In 2014, he edited (with Doug Davis, Karen Hellekson, and Craig Jacobsen) a volume of essays entitled SF 101: An Introduction to Teaching and Studying Science Fiction. In 2016, he published Feminist Epistemology and Feminist Science Fiction: Four Modes (Palgrave). He has published two volumes with Aqueduct: The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism (edited, 2016) and Queering SF: Readings (2022). He is currently working on volume on short science fiction film (with Paweł Frelik) and a book on C. J. Cherryh.

He was a juror for the 2014 Philip K. Dick Award and for the 2018 James Tiptree Award (Otherwise). He lives on Long Island. One of his chickens has now decided that she lives inside the house.

Monday, January 9, 2023

The Pleasures of Reading, Viewing, and Listening in 2022, pt. 30: Rosanne Rabinowitz


Adapt this, adapt that

by Rosanne Rabinowitz


This year I’ve given some thought about adaptations, especially adaptations of much-loved books. How do you capture the essence of a work within a different medium, and with at least several years of history down the line? I've also been intrigued by the role of memory. It could be a few years since I've read the book, so I'm always viewing a series with an imperfect view of the book. And while I'm writing this, I'm remembering a series without the time to rewatch it. Yet memory is where our most loved books and programmes dwell. 


Station Eleven


I first read Station Eleven when it came out in 2015. It also enjoyed a resurgence at the time of the Covid pandemic with its story of a deadly flu virus that wipes out large swathes of the population and the high-tech way of life. The story moves between the time before the flu, during and some years later. A child actress at the time of the change, Kirsten is now a player in the Travelling Symphony theatre troupe that travels between far-flung settlements.


I read the book a second time in 2021. Due to an actual pandemic it acquired another layer of meaning. This time, I read it to my client at work. I also found that the Prophet reminded me of a number of self-righteous individuals I’ve dealt with since the first reading, which resulted in my hamming it up when I came to the Prophet’s dialogue.


And then Station Eleven became an HBO TV drama series over 2021-2022.


What I've liked about the novel Station Eleven is its quieter approach to the post-apocalyptic tale, one that is neither dystopian or utopian. To paraphrase Ursula LeGuin's subtitle for her classic The Dispossessed ('an ambiguous utopia'), it is an ambiguous dystopia. In one strand, a disparate group of people are stranded in an airport and organise themselves as best they can. The Sky Lounge becomes a library and museum to the old world that was lost; parties hunt venison in the surrounding countryside. People muddle through. It isn't perfect, but it is certainly not a Cormac McCarthy-style long-pig chompathon.  


I was hoping that this more understated approach would stay in the series, and it wouldn't get turned into Mad Max plus Shakespeare. I'm glad to say that didn't happen. The series retains the emphasis on characters living, struggling, and sometimes creating in this transformed world.


Some aspects of the series worked well to heighten themes of the book and provided a more coherent shape to a story sustained over 10 episodes. For example, the portrayal of the relationship between the child Kirsten and Jeevan, who became her guardian with the loss of her parents. Their relationship and separation becomes a central thread running through the story.


Another difference lies in the portrayal of the airport community and the fundamentalist cult that arises in the post-pandemic world – steered by the 'Prophet.’ In the book, the airport community is shown in a benign or at most ambiguous light – much of the ambiguity came with the fact that the fundamentalist Prophet had grown up within that settlement. The fate of the last plane that lands in the airport illustrates this difference. In the book, no one leaves the plane and no one enters. It is left to the reader to imagine the horror of events on that plane as passengers sickened and died.


In the series, the airport community is cast in a darker light. Here, an actual survivor emerges from the plane and the denizens of the airport shoot him. We really didn't need that bit of add-on melodrama. Perhaps it was put in there to give the Prophet a motivation to react against and eventually leave the community; however, the paradox of an improvised democratic community giving rise to an authoritarian force provides enough grist for the mill. I also found that the presence of the plane as a silent ever-present tomb was much more effective.


The Prophet in the series was portrayed as more New-Agey rather than the straight patriarchal Bible-bound fundamentalist – with a penchant for multiple teenaged brides – as in the book. However, the book version resonated much more for me, given that fundamentalist movements have expanded their influence in our post-pandemic world.  


In the book, comics artist Miranda and Arthur Leander had been childhood friends on a small island off Canada’s west coast. This underpinned their relationship and gave some soul to Arthur’s character, who comes across as a simple vain-glorious star in the series.


This link is worth a look for a consideration of Station Eleven that takes a more critical look at the book:


For fans of Station Eleven in any form, I’d recommend St John Mandel’s latest book Sea of Tranquillity. It is a multi-stranded novel involving time travel and narratives across different time-lines, reminding me of David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas. And guess what? One strand concerns an author who has written a novel about a pandemic, who is faced with a real pandemic on a book tour.


And over the holidays I’ve read SJM's The Glass Hotel, the book that actually followed Station Eleven and preceded Sea of Tranquillity. There is a touch of ghostiness but little SF here; however, the book sets out some of the table for the book that followed it. I actually had this on my Kindle for a long time. Something about a fancy hotel, a Ponzi scheme and very posh people? Not really my cuppa. However, this book is as mysterious and wonderful as anything else that SJM has written. You also will get the back story of several characters you meet in Sea of Tranquillity.  


It does appear that Emily has committed trilogy! Whether this will be reflected in further TV series is another matter. 



The Mayfair Witches (series on AMC)



I’ve not yet seen this because it hasn’t been released yet! Therefore, this isn’t a review or a piece of criticism, but a look at the anticipation and apprehension that greets an adaption like this. Anne Rice’s Mayfair Witches trilogy had been a major literary love of mine in the 1990s. 


There was meant to ne a film of the first book, The Witching Hour, with Michelle Pfeiffer as Rowan Mayfair in the 1990s. I don’t know who was meant to play the other characters but in my fantasy casting Daniel Day Lewis would have played Lasher and Mickey Rourke would be Michael Curry. Shame that film never got made.


At the same time, I now appreciate that a drama series would do these books – or even one of these books – more justice than a film.


So I watched a couple of the trailers. What I saw filled me with some alarm, along with curiosity. WTF is that snaky tentacle thing doing there with that lady in bed? Oh no, do we get the trope of the beautiful shapeshifter really being a yukky slimy thingy? Double oh no, don’t tell me that Lasher will have a beard (inspired by a photo of Jack Huston, who will play the entity). And Rowan’s shiny eyes (full Midwich Cuckoo stuff) in one of the adverts also inspired some misgivings. 


In the original trilogy, there is some discontinuity between The Witching Hour and Lasher. In the first, Lasher is a discorporate entity who is fascinated by the fleshly world and takes his route of entering it through pleasures of the flesh. He takes human form and male at that because that’s the way to go! The second book introduces a lost race of very tall slender and long-lived people, and Lasher is one of them and seeks to bring them back. Sometimes the two concepts don’t mesh but the jarring interface between the two is overcome by the perfection that is the third volume, Taltos.


I look forward to seeing how the drama series joins the concepts. 


Wednesday (Netflix)


Finally, I've enjoyed Wednesday on Netflix. Of course, I had my initial worries. Will the sharp satirical edge of the Addams Family films get dissolved in some generic teen drama? I still seasonally post the Thanksgiving skit sequence from Addams Family Values each year.


But the first scene, where Wednesday puts piranhas in the school swimming pool, proved these fears proved groundless. The series was a delight. I was especially taken by its 'too weird for even the weirdos' theme, which is often how I feel at F/SF conventions! 



Rosanne Rabinowitz's novella Helen's Story was a finalist for the 2013 Shirley Jackson Award and she has contributed work to a variety of anthologies from acclaimed independent publishers such as Egaeus Press and Swan River Press. Her first collection of short fiction, Resonance & Revolt, was published by Eibonvale Press in 2018 and shortlisted for the British Fantasy Award. Her chapbook All That is Solid is available from Eibonvale Press as well and it has also been published in German.

Rosanne lives in South London, working as a carer and a freelance editor. She enjoys strong coffee, whisky and jumping around to raucous music of all genres. She also likes a good schlep around her neighborhood and visits to a local pub once frequented by William Blake. She often engages in fretting, nail-biting, sarcasm and satire.

For more information visit: Follow Rosanne on Twitter: