Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
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.
A chilling exploration of power, oppression and the fragility of democracy – far from light reading, especially given today’s political climate – even those familiar with the series will find the novel a more visceral experience.
Abraham Verghese’s lauded novel effectively blends drama with cultural and historical perspectives but it also sometimes struggles under the weight of its own expansiveness.
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.
