On New Torchwood Novels

At work recently, I received two of the three new Torchwood novels. :tardis:

New, of course, is a relative term. This particular batch of three — Into the Silence, The House that Jack Bult, Bay of the Dead — released in the UK several months ago, probably April or May. On this side of the pond, they’re brand new, out for just a month or so.

I’ve finally taken them home. The two books (the only one I didn’t get was Into the Silence) have sat on my desk, staring at me. I’ve had no interest in reading them. I’ve had no desire to touch them.

The reason? Children of Earth.

Make no mistake. I thought the mini-series was brilliant. It raised the bar for what was possible in a Doctor Who story. It was harrowing. It was gutwrenching. It was moving. It was powerful.

These books, out in the UK for months when Children of Earth aired, have taken on a strange cast in the light of Children of Earth. There on the covers — Jack, Ianto, Gwen, all happy. Ianto looking sardonic, Jack with a wry smile, Gwen content. Seeing them like that feels, for all the world, like nothing less than a betrayal.

The books could be brilliant (and I’ve heard great things about The House that Jack Built). But I don’t want to know. The adventures will doubtless feel too small. The characters of Torchwood, always damaged to some extent in the series, aren’t the shattered hulls that emerged from the wrecked of Children of Earth. They would be happy and lively, when the shadow of tragedy lurks just beyond the horizon. And that just seems wrong to me.

Maybe, in time, I’ll feel differently, and I’ll come back to these books. But for right now, I don’t want to read them.

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