Rules of the Game by Amy Tan

The Double Attack from the East and West Shores.

My mom loves Amy Tan. I’m talking multiple rereads of The Joy Luck Club, well-worn paperback, folded corners, writing in the margins, underlining key passages and the occasional sticky note that says “so true!” in Chinese. It’s one of her comfort books: part motherly wisdom, part emotional catharsis, part “see, this is what it was like for me growing up with your grandmother in this country." 

And honestly, I get it. As an author who captures the push-and-pull between Chinese immigrant parents and their American-born kids, Amy Tan speaks to people like my mom. People who lived that cultural tightrope firsthand. But embarrassingly, I hadn’t actually read anything by Tan until now. Chalk it up to my lifelong rebellion against anything my mom told me I should do because she knows best. 

Rules of the Game is subtle, smart, and layered in that quiet Amy Tan way that sneaks up on you. It’s about Waverly Place Jong, a precocious girl growing up in San Francisco’s Chinatown who becomes a chess prodigy. Her name (“Waverly Place”) feels symbolic, caught between two worlds. Chess, of course, becomes a metaphor for life, for control, for navigating a world where everyone’s playing by different rules.

There’s a line that really hit me: when Waverly’s mother flips through the chess instruction book and mutters, “This American rules.” It’s such a small moment, but perfectly encapsulates the juxtaposition between Chinese culture and American values.  No one explains the “rules” of America to immigrants. It's often filled with hardship and sacrifice (like in chess). You have to learn them the hard way, piece by piece.  It’s both funny and heartbreaking, the way Tan captures that gap between generations: the daughter mastering the literal rules of chess and the mother mastering the invisible rules of survival.

There's more to this story than the complex relationship between the young girl and her mother, even though it's done quite well. It’s about every argument, every misunderstanding, every proud-but-stubborn moment between two people who love each other deeply but can’t quite say it out loud. Basically, it’s like every dinner conversation I’ve ever had with my mom.

Maybe it’s time I finally borrow my mom's beat up copy of The Joy Luck Club, though let’s be honest, she’ll probably just use that as an excuse to “accidentally” quiz me on it later.

The Way She Smiles, the Things She Says by Greg Egan

 

Companion.

I  am a big fan of Greg Egan. The guy’s basically a one-man sci-fi think tank. His short fiction usually blows my mind in the best way: intricate ideas, sharp prose, and the kind of brainy what-if scenarios that make you question the fabric of reality. I’ve sung his praises plenty of times on this blog. He’s the rare author who makes science fiction feel fresh again. I like to think of him as the Australian Ted Chiang, just with a little more math and physics thrown in for good measure.

So imagine my disappointment when I read The Way She Smiles, the Things She Says. To put it gently, this one’s a real stinker. It's awful with no redeeming qualities. I still can't believe this is the same author than penned such fantastic stories like "The Infinite Assassin" or "Learning to Be Me." It feels like an imposter. 

Taken from his Artifacts short-story collection, the razor thin-premise revolves around a sexually depraved father who’s jealous of his son’s relationship with a sexbot. The whole thing reads like a late-night fever dream of bad ideas stitched together with the faintest trace of Egan’s usual precision.

What really sinks it is the hollowness underneath. It flirts with big themes such as toxic masculinity, AI companionship and fractured family dynamics, but never commits to saying anything meaningful about them. The rampant vulgarity and misogyny also serve no purpose, only adding to the cringe-factor. Egan’s best stories hum with ideas and emotional resonance; this one just hums with half-baked ideas and bad writing. If you ever wondered what Greg Egan’s version of a trainwreck looks like, well, here it is.

A Sudden Story by Robert Coover

Take that, sour breath!

Robert Coover has been on my literary radar forever—one of those big name short story writers form the '80s that you keep hearing about never quite get around to reading. I finally decided to change that and started with A Sudden Story, which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake. It's like starting a meal with the mint they give you after dinner at a fancy restaurant.

The story is, well, sudden. Like, “wait, that’s it?” kind of sudden. It's only a single paragraph. 

I tend to be apprehensive around super-short stories because it's very difficult to pull off successfully without veering into gimmick territory or fizzling out as an intellectual exercise in futility.  Sadly, this one leans more toward the latter.

I think Coover might be trying to mess around with classical archetypies (hero vs dragon tropes or dig at something deeper about storytelling itself, but if there’s hidden meaning here, it went right over my head The word “sudden” and it's derivations keep popping up like it’s important, but…important how? 

Your guess is as good as mine.

To be fair, it’s hard to pack emotional depth into something that could fit on a sticky note. The result isn’t bad, just kind of innocuous. You read it, shrug, and move on with your day. More of a literary palate cleanser than a full-course meal.

You can read this story HERE.