Mort, Pratchett. Yes. Another enjoyable Discworld® novel.

Little Fuzzy, Piper. Yes. I read this mostly to find out whether there was anything about it that seemed to cry out for re-imagining. To cut to the chase, I didn’t find anything. It is very much of its time, and very reminiscent to me of Heinlein in its gender and other politics, so it is a bit quaint; but I found nothing that made me understand any better the impulse to dig up these bones and throw modern flesh over them

Alison Wonderland, Smith. No. There was nothing egregiously objectionable in Smith’s writing, but there was no point throughout reading the book that I would have been unable to put it down. I found it difficult to care about any of the characters, and the intrigue just wasn’t very intriguing.
Note: This review is based on an advance reader’s copy provided by the publisher.

Tiassa, Brust. Yes. I give Brust full credit for mixing things up with his Vlad Taltos books: in this one, in addition to the usual narrative voice of our hero, we get traditional third-person as well as a visit from Paarfi, the Dumasian voice of the Khaavren romances. That said, it is overwhelmingly likely you already know whether you want to read this one. If you don’t, I recommend you start with Jhereg (linked book actually includes the first three novels).

Jane Jones: Worst. Vampire. Ever., St. Onge. Yes. I must confess to a small amount of trepidation regarding this book, since it was written by an Internet acquaintance of whom I am fond, and I didn’t want to be in the position of saying unpleasant things about it. Fortunately (and not at all surprisingly, given that I knew from her blog the author is a skilled writer), I quite enjoyed it. St. Onge has built a pleasingly rich story around the simplest of high concepts (“blood-intolerant teenage vampire”). An excellent novel and, what is more, an excellent YA novel.
Editing was better than most recent releases, though not without a couple hiccups.

Fuzzy Nation, Scalzi. Yes. Few phrases will cause me to inwardly wince and outwardly sigh quite so reliably as (any variation of) “Franchise reboot.” Never having read Little Fuzzy, I don’t know in what ways or to what extent FN re-imagines it, or why Scalzi and his enablers believed that course was warranted; nothing in the text struck me as especially ground-breaking or made me think “there’s no way this could have been written in 1962.”
Perplexities about why this book happened aside, the book itself is an entirely enjoyable corporate intrigue set in a distant star system.

Faith, Hope & Love, Owen. Yes. According to the (starred) Publishers Weekly review excerpted on the front cover, this is a “savage indictment of Britain’s welfare programs.” That is not a reading I would have brought to this particular text, which to me seemed more a tale of family and choices. Well written, if sloppily edited here and there.

Hogfather: A Novel of Discworld®, Pratchett. Yes. Due to a cluster of bad planning on my part, I found myself facing a long bus ride with no book and a nearly dead cellphone, so I stopped in to the library to test my hypothesis that Pratchett’s Discworld® books make reliable “I need something to read right now” material. So far, the hypothesis is holding up, though book club discussions make me suspect that may be due to my not thinking very hard about them while I’m reading them.

My Favourite People and Me 1978–1988, Davies. Non-fiction. Like Zombie Spaceship Wasteland, this memoir has what I think of as a non-traditional structure. In this case, each year constitutes a major section, with each of Davies’s “Favourite People” during that year given a sub-section. Unlike ZSW, the parts that are not straight-ahead memoir are contextual, historical, and atmospheric. The structural conceit is, unsurprisingly, stretched to the limit a number of times, with the nominal subject of a sub-section frequently taking a back seat to other notable people or events.
Given that Davies is a fairly thoughtful guy who grew up about the same time I did, I found it easy enough to identify with his accounts, though since he is English and I am not, I found the stories of exciting Cricket encounters less gripping than I otherwise might have. Even the football, of which I am also a fan, did go on a bit for my taste. I did find one parallel especially entertaining, though: In the 1979 section, he writes “There was a feeling amongst my peers that, culturally, American was best.” At the same time, my peers and I were discovering Monty Python, and had quite the opposite feeling. If I were to write a similar memoir, there could be several sequences in which my friends and I annoyed those around us by affecting ridiculous accents that we fancied were British.
Overall, it holds together reasonably well, and I enjoyed the opportunity to learn more about Davies than I had seen in QI.

Among Others, Walton. Yes. Walton continues to perform reliably for me. My only issue with this coming-of-age story, set in roughly the same era when I was coming of age, is that there is so much nostalgia and name-checking that, when it was over, I felt like there should probably have been a bit more story.