Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
Split between two narrators – Mark Wolfe, a self-absorbed technical writer from Pittsburgh, and Lakesha Williams, his diligent and thoughtful work colleague – the story kicks off with a mundane office conflict that feels disconnected from the rest of the novel's ostensible focus: the search for Godwin, a young African soccer prodigy. This odd opening sets the tone for a book that reads like two distinct narratives clumsily stitched together.
For all its flaws, “The Brothers K” offers a reminder of the bonds that hold families together despite their differences. The Chance family, though flawed and frequently at odds, is united by love and loyalty – a timely message about finding the good in one another.
Though the prose remains lush, her reliance on symbolism and Shakespearean allusions requires a level of patience and literary devotion this novel didn’t earn. For those well-versed in “King Lear” and drawn to dense, slow-burn literary fiction, there may be more to appreciate.
Reading mirrors life. At times, you experience one incredible read after another, but other times you’re stuck in a slump that seems unending. But perseverance often leads to better days, and this year reminded me of that truth.
With 72% of my reading this year incorporating an audio component, it’s surprising that more performances didn’t land on my “worst” list – especially considering how average my overall reading year felt.
Short story collections, anthologies and graphic novels provided much-needed variety, proving that it’s always a good idea to shake up your format. As for my quest to tackle the “chonky” novels languishing on my TBR list, well, many were ambitious but frustrating.
Jonathan Evison’s “Lawn Boy” attempts to tackle social inequality with humor and heart, but its execution falters. While the book has been challenged for fleeting references to sex and gender identity, these objections feel exaggerated. The real discomfort lies in its critique of systemic barriers that make stability and success elusive for marginalized communities—a critique that some may find hard to swallow.
For readers interested in a nuanced look at coming out later in life, particularly in the mid-2000s – a time when acceptance was growing but still fraught with homophobia and fears of ostracism – “The Lie” offers an authentic, if imperfect, reflection.
As usual, Larson’s storytelling brings history to life in vivid detail, a rare skill in nonfiction, but here, the ambitious scope feels unwieldy – even for a pro. The concurrent narratives and numerous characters create a sprawling account, yet “Demon” lacks the cohesion and emotional depth that defined his best works.
Garth Greenwell’s “Small Rain” explores the isolation and unraveling of self that so many of us endured during the first COVID-19 summer. His unnamed protagonist experiences this in a way that’s magnified tenfold, as he is confined to a hospital room with a potentially fatal diagnosis: an aortic dissection. The fact he survived such low odds and remains coherent adds an underlying tension to every encounter. He is suspended in a liminal state, living on what feels like borrowed time.
At first glance, Rebecca McKanna’s “Don’t Forget the Girl” may seem like another mystery thriller critiquing true crime culture – and to an extent, it is – but it stands out with its sharp edges and an unexpectedly poignant queer love story. This adds depth, transforming what could have been a straightforward thriller into something more personal and thought-provoking.
"Woe" serves as both a touching tribute to a beloved cat and a comforting reminder to those who have lost a four-legged friend that their sorrow is valid and shared.
Everything you need to know about “Long Island Compromise” is in the title. It is essentially a 500-page exploration of the ways in which people can be screwed over by each other, a job and the relentless pursuit of money.
While the author primarily focuses on the experiences of straight white men, his narratives transcend the typical masculine tropes. With raw emotional honesty, he taps into the inner workings of the male psyche, examining the impact of toxic masculinity, friendship, fatherhood, trauma, loss, identity and nature on the common man.
With 26 stories in the collection, it's unsurprising that not all of them resonated. I enjoyed about half, while others felt flat, somewhat confusing or a bit derivative of stronger stories in the mix. Still, this anthology serves as an excellent entry point to the world of Indigenous writers who are making waves in literature right now.
Ultimately, “Slasher” is an intriguing experiment into metahorror and a homage to 80s slashers (mostly Jason Voorhees) that narrowly misses its mark. If you’re looking for something punchy, gory and unapologetic, I’d suggest Chuck Tingle’s “Bury Your Gays” instead.
Overall, “Cursed Bunny” is a creative, yet uneven collection. While some stories are haunting and memorable, others feel stretched or underdeveloped. Fans of unconventional horror might find it worth the read, but for me, it was hit or miss.
“All the Colors of the Dark” is a sprawling novel that tries to do too much and ends up delivering very little. At best, it's aggressively mediocre, and at worst, it's a contrived and overly familiar story built on tropes.
Ultimately, “Devil House” is less about the crime itself and more about the ethical considerations of how we consume and produce true crime stories. Darnielle asks readers to reconsider the humanity of those at the heart of these crimes – individuals who had lives, families and dreams, but are reduced to sensational headlines or footnotes in someone else’s story.
Despite its length, “IT” stands as one of Stephen King’s most unsettling and complex works, effectively weaving psychological and supernatural horror with real-world brutality. Although King has made a career out of exploring dark and unhinged themes, “IT” pushes those boundaries.
