Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
A solid addition to Stephen King’s bibliography, though it may not stand alongside his most enduring works. The stakes in each story feel high, and while not every piece reaches the heights of his best work, the collection as a whole offers a compelling, if occasionally uneven, journey into King’s evolving narrative style.
I don't give five stars easily and almost never to a series book, or a YA novel, but “Sunrise on the Reaping” earns it. Propulsive, gutting and almost unbearably tense, it takes the familiar structure of the series and makes it feel more personal, more political and more devastating than ever.
To his credit, Baldacci doesn’t sanitize the war. He allows his characters to bristle at their government, at the Americans and at each other. The book isn’t burdened by a need for patriotic polish, and its refusal to lean into easy sentimentality is refreshing.
Ultimately, this collection serves as both a time capsule and a stepping stone in Abdurraqib’s evolution as a writer. It lacks the full polish of his later work, but the rawness and energy make it an essential read for those who appreciate music, culture and the ever-shifting landscape of America.
It’s a curious novel, blending fiction with recognizable realities, that made me care about a family I would have rather forgotten. So I’m surprised to say I’m glad I picked it up. Not because of the subject matter but because it proves Sittenfeld is one of the most fascinating writers working today.
While the romance at times veers into saccharine territory – declarations of love come frequently, and some gestures, like the grand finale at Wrigley Field, feel cinematic to a fault – it is counterbalanced with an exploration of what it means to forgive, even if forgetting is not an option.
At its core, the novel grapples with the fragility of truth – how it is twisted, feared and contested. Miller offers no easy solutions, but she does provide a playbook: meet people where they are, understand what drives them and push back – sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully.
As a debut, “The Continental Divide” is grim, bold and occasionally brilliant. Johnson knows how to build tension and tap into the slow, often quiet desperation of a life that feels like it’s going nowhere. He’s not reinventing the short story but proving he belongs in the conversation.
“Somewhere Beyond the Sea” wants to be a beacon, but it ends up an echo of what made “The House in the Cerulean Sea” so beloved. It wants to offer the inclusive magic Rowling won’t, and for some readers, that alone may be enough. But intent doesn’t equal impact. The message may still shine through, but the journey is far less enchanting than before.
Michael Perry’s “Forty Acres Deep” may be short, but it carries the emotional weight of a full-length novel in its 130-pages. Here, the author explores heavy topics: loss, survival and the quiet erosion of a way of life. It’s a book that operates on multiple levels – an intimate character study, a eulogy for small-scale farming and an unflinching look at the toll of solitude.
“Blue Sisters” is, in many ways, a Trojan horse of a novel – what seems like a light, fast read is actually a deeply serious and heartfelt story about grief’s enduring grip and the slow, often painful process of rebuilding in its wake.
This novella has solidified my disinterest in Burroughs and, perhaps, in the Beat Generation as a whole. As for the film adaptation, I’ll take a pass – I’ve given this story enough of my time.
From the Obergefell ruling to the Pulse nightclub massacre, “Party” captures the emotional and political climate of a pivotal year for the LGBTQ+ community. The novel questions the expectations placed on modern gay men, contrasts different generational perspectives and resists a tidy resolution, embodying the complexity and contradictions of queer existence in a post-modern world.
Though the author is best known for his searing critiques of race and sexuality, “Beale Street” is unique in his body of work. It’s his first novel (that I’ve read) centered entirely on Black love and the only one narrated by a woman.
Daniel Black’s “Isaac’s Song” is less a sequel to “Don’t Cry for Me” than a companion piece, giving Isaac’s long-awaited perspective on his relationship with his father, Jacob. While “Cry” was a reckoning told through a dying father’s letters, “Song” is a son’s introspective journey through memory, contradiction and generational trauma.
While not without its uneven moments, this is a testament to Jones’ ability to blend personal history with fiction, elevating the struggles of Black children into something literary, urgent and deeply human.
Robin R. Means Coleman and Mark H. Harris lean into their respective expertise – academic and journalist – to explore the evolution of Black representation in horror, organizing their insights around themes, tropes and industry trends that often mirror shifting racial attitudes in America.
Octavia E. Butler’s storytelling is gripping but uneven, blending chilling foresight with a narrative that sometimes felt disjointed. While her vision of America is undeniably powerful, the novel’s fragmented structure and numerous themes occasionally dilute its impact.
While “Run” may not yet match the polish of “March,” it lays a promising foundation for future installments. For now, it earns a place on my shelf as a testament to Lewis’s legacy and a reminder that the fight for equality – though officially decades past – continues to reverberate today.
While “The Testaments” may not be as beloved as the original – let’s be honest, few sequels are – I still found it to be a compelling page-turner that stands as a masterclass in dystopian fiction.
