I'm tempted to just say "writing VISCERA took a lot of GUTS (get it?)" and leave it there. Because guts are intimate and messy and confusing when you've got them all splayed out, the temptation is to just let them speak for themselves. But I do want to talk about a few of the things in these guts I found worthy.
Viscera was sort of a strangely constructed story. The two main characters, Rafe and Ashlan had almost the same journey, though neither really helped or were even fully aware of one another's struggles or goals. But both characters were disturbed people who found peace by embracing their transformation, creating/accepting a new family for themselves, and reconciling themselves with the spiritual practices of their birth.
It's funny that in a story with a luck-worshipping drug-addled murder cult, killer gut-filled robots, and dead but lingering Gods, the actual plot feels that straightforward and earnest to me, but that's what I felt was important here. You might be in it for the magic and battles and witty dialogue, but I'm looking at the guts and trying to make sense of them.
The fact that the two main characters had such a faithful reflection of one another's journey towards peace, I felt very strongly that Squaillia was trying to get us to see the eternal, universal struggle with identity, change, family, and faith that all individuals must take.
But this wasn't a difference-erasing EVERYONE IS THE SAME kind of message. In fact, the main antagonist was motivated by that very type of ethos! To the contrary, in Viscera, Squaillia went in the other direction, using this established universal struggle, to highlight the specific differences of the struggles their characters had and how their specific identities and situations shaped and intensified that universal struggle.
Even though the crosswise (or trans or non-binary or etc.) seemed perhaps more prevalent in this world than ours, they faced a similarly severe reaction from the culture at large, existing only in the liminal spaces they could find unoccupied and unseen. Within these spaces, they may have been able to live freely, but outside was a world in which they must remain closeted or risk meeting harassment or a sudden and traumatic ending.
This leads me to the most emotionally affecting part of the story for me, which, in an interesting parallel with their first novel, is also a tragic death told in a flashback a good way through the novel that adds a lot of context to how the character got the way they were.
In this case, it was Rafe's partner and major influence/introduction into the world of the crosswise, Gingerbeard. Their tragic, senseless death explained so well how Rafe became a drug addicted assassin cultist.
But none of that would have meant anything had Squaillia not already gotten us on Rafe's side with the way they introduced and revealed him. It was brave and magical to write from the drug-addict's point of view and give him a voice. For whatever reason in our culture they are one of the groups of people it's ok to treat as less than human.
But Squaillia wrote him so faithfully that by the time it was revealed he was biologically a woman, we were able to be in a place to reject the gender of their birth as thoroughly as they themselves do. And since trans people are widely considered socially on par with addicts as non-humans unworthy of respect, I found it amazing that our point of view was so tightly and sympathetically tied to theirs.
But this book wasn't all transgressive politics or whatever, it was full of witty dialogue and interesting relationships over the backdrop of a repressive culture ruling over a landscape of endless professional war and drawing on the power of the remnants of long dead Gods. In fact, I think one could read the whole thing without getting hung up on the identity politics of it.
The swift skeleton of it was the plot, basically an extended barter between a bunch of characters who mostly don't really care about one another, but who all have what another character so desperately needs. The handsome, pretty flesh of it was the colorful cast and the decaying background and the repressive toppling government, but the guts of it, the part I wanted to think about because they were what the book was presumably named after, was the transformation; the courage it took to embrace transformation.
We can't recognize how we're all different until we understand the ways we are all the same, but we can't see how we're all the same until we start to embrace the differences. This book brought us into intimate contact with people who exist on that boundary all the time, who are both exactly the same as us and, at the same time, wildly different. Squaillia gave us deeper glimpse into that specific difference, even though their differences were of a kind people are less likely to be accepting of and they gave us this glimpse in enough of a sympathetic way that we could love the characters the way we love ourselves- honestly and without that pathological need to uncritically accept every single thing about them.
They wrote a moral novel across the background setting of an amoral world. A funhouse world that was amoral in many of the ways our own world is amoral. With the speedy feel of the book and all the subtle nods to current real-world practices and institutions, and, above-all with the dead, but still powerful persistent remnants of the Gods, Squaillia made a great statement for these characters self-directed/soul-directed morality taking the good and great from the old ways. In our world and in the world of the story, that takes some guts and is still somehow controversial, even as so many millions already live that way.
But I will reiterate one thing and close with one thing I never mentioned at all. First, the novel is fun and has a lot of elements of the weird and fantastic and does not need to be read into the way I did and could be enjoyed very well even only on a surface level. And finally, I want you to know I could be wrong about all of this. I could have brought it all into my reading of the novel where it didn't belong.
In ancient Rome and Etrusca, there were diviners called the haruspex, and their entire job was to look at the splayed out guts of sanctified animals and read therein the future. These diviners tell a complicated story from a heap of viscera and a different diviner would see a totally different story in the same pile of guts and that's just how things are sometimes.