The Lineup

I Was A Teenage Slasher was my first foray into Stephen Graham Jones’s work, and it left a positive and lasting impression. I know that some longtime fans found it challenging but I was captivated by how SGJ uses the slasher genre to delve into themes of free will, fate, grief, social acceptance, and revenge. The ending was particularly striking—smart, clean, and crisp. As a fellow West Texan, I also appreciated the regional references woven throughout the narrative.

This isn’t a book I would normally pick up on my own, but it was part of a book club I planned to attend—so I gave it a chance. I’m glad I did. The story offers a heartfelt reminder that everyone is trying to navigate life the best they can. The novel touches sporadically but meaningfully on themes of discrimination, racism, and other harmful social constructs related to race, color, national origin, sex, and gender. What stood out most, though, was the vulnerability and humanity of its characters. I appreciated how the book didn’t shy away from emotional complexity. The characters make choices—some moral, some messy—and it all feels authentically awkward, like real life. I’d be genuinely interested to see what happens to them in a sequel.

I love how literature can shift perspectives and open up new ways of thinking—new ways of seeing life. I was completely hooked on this story. It has so much to say yet delivers it all with a subtle, quiet power.
Without giving anything away, I know the ending might be divisive (some readers may not love it) but to me, it made perfect sense. It stayed true to the story’s tone and emotional arc.
As I read, I couldn’t help but imagine how this would unfold on screen or even as a Dateline episode. It had that kind of tension and complexity. I can’t wait to read more from Lucy Rose.

I first saw the movie in elementary school and read the novella years later in college, and I’ve loved the story ever since. It’s a masterclass in character, redemption, and quiet resilience. King gives us two of the most memorable figures in modern fiction: Red and Andy. They’re so well-drawn, you feel like you could sit down and interview them or just hang out for an afternoon. After finishing the book, I looked up Zihuatanejo out of pure curiosity. I blame it for my deep-rooted love of the Pacific Ocean.

This one kept me guessing the whole way through. The suspense builds steadily, and I found myself constantly trying to piece everything together. What stood out most was the writing itself—vivid, immersive, and a perfect example of “show, don’t tell.” The setting and characters came to life so clearly in my mind. I won’t say much about the plot (it’s better to go in with as little as possible), but it’s absolutely worth the read.

Hernan Diaz might be one of my new favorite writers. In the Distance is technically fiction, but it reads like historical fiction—with a deep sense of place and time, even if I can’t vouch for the exact accuracy. What I can say is that Diaz’s storytelling is fantastic. The writing is spare but powerful, and the main character stayed with me in a way few others have. Something about his solitude, resilience, and quiet search for meaning hit close to home. I’m already planning to read Trust next.

This candid and, at times, unexpectedly funny memoir offers a thoughtful and unflinching look at the criminal justice system, particularly its failures and its often startling absence of humanity. Hardin writes with disarming vulnerability and a sharp, compassionate voice, inviting readers into an intensely personal and socially resonant story. What makes this book stand out is its personal transformation and the way it invites readers to reconsider how we think about guilt, redemption, and the people caught in the system—a powerful, eye-opening read.

Bukowski doesn’t waste your time-or words. Factotum is all grit: low-wage gigs, dive bars, and wandering that feels aimless and oddly purposeful. The writing’s bare-bones and dry-eyed, no sentiment, no dressing it up. If you’ve ever found a strange beauty in the mess of things, this one might speak to you. He captures a version of life most writers look away from and does it with brutal honesty and surprising poetry.

This book hit me hard. It’s not flashy. It just gets right under your skin. Rooney’s characters feel real, as if she pulled from your thoughts or memories. Significant events don’t drive the story, but emotion does. Messy, honest, everyday emotion define Rooney’s world. It’s about the stuff we don’t always discuss but carry around anyway. And somehow, she puts all of it on the page.

Wow. The writing in this book is clean, sharp, and unflinching. There’s no fluff, just straight, powerful storytelling. The plot is gripping, but the characters stay with you—complex, flawed, and deeply human. I’m still unpacking the ending and would love to discuss it with someone who’s read it. I’ve been diving into online discussions just to get other perspectives on what Carpenter was doing with these characters. It’s the kind of book that makes you want to sit with it—and talk about it—for a long time.

This is the second book I’ve read by Iglesias, and I’m all in on his style. His writing is fast, fierce, and full of heart—blending horror, crime, and noir in a fresh way. At one point, I told someone this has to be a movie. It reminded me of a Latino No Country for Old Men—gritty, violent, and thoughtful all at once. It’s a wild ride and absolutely worth picking up.

This is one of those books that catches you off guard. It’s about surviving the Holocaust, but more than that, it’s about what it takes to keep going after unimaginable loss. Eger doesn’t write like someone trying to impress you. She writes like someone who’s lived through hell and comes back with something honest to say. Her fear, pain, and resilience are all there and are never simple. That’s what makes it so powerful.

This isn’t the kind of book I usually reach for, but I’m glad I did. Its historical fiction is set in 1970s Mexico during a time of political unrest and government suppression. Though fictional, the story feels like it could have easily happened—it has that kind of weight and realism. What stood out to me most was how it explored power and resistance and the quiet ways ordinary people get pulled into something far more significant than themselves.

This beautifully written, thoughtful book left me with a quiet sense of peace. It’s not harsh or heavy. It flows gently, even as it explores deep questions about aging, memory, and the human experience. Evison reminds us that our time on this Earth—this reality, this life—is limited and that the connections we make along the way are what give it meaning. There was something really comforting about reading and finishing this book. It stayed with me.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with this boo. I had never read Zebin before. It was a beautiful story about redemption, second chances, and the quiet power of good people. It’s a reminder that the right relationships can change everything. And, as a bonus, the main character owns a bookstore—which, for me, made the whole experience even better. It’s heartfelt, thoughtful, and an absolute joy to read.

This one came in through my Book of the Month membership, and I’m glad it did. It’s an easy, engaging read with a solid storyline. What really stuck with me was how it quietly reaffirmed something I’ve long believed—wealth creates an entirely different reality. The way rich people move through the world, the decisions they make, the problems they face—it’s a whole different universe from the one most people live in. This book captured that divide in a way that felt subtle and dangerous.

I wish Don Carpenter were still alive. I read this after Hard Rain Falling, and it only deepened my appreciation for his work. Knowing his background in Hollywood and screenwriting, I couldn’t help but see pieces of his own experience reflected in the story. What struck me most was how Friday Night at Enrico’s captures the writer’s life—not just as a job, but as something that shapes identity, relationships, and one’s sense of place in the world. It’s about the art, but it’s also about the cost. I really enjoyed this one—and if I could, I’d love to sit down with Jonathan Lethem and talk it all through.

This is the second book I’ve read by Gonzalez, and I’ve really come to enjoy her style. What stood out to me in this one was how she wove a real-life murder into the story—I actually visited the location where it happened in NYC. The real murder plot gave the narrative an added layer of weight. The way the true crime element is woven through the protagonist’s journey is clever and compelling. It’s a unique and thoughtful take on how the past haunts or echoes the present.

As a former criminal defense attorney, I nerded out over the courtroom scenes in this book. The legal language, the strategy, the motion work—it all felt familiar in the best way. If I didn’t have that background, I think some of the procedural details might’ve gone over my head. But for me, that insider perspective made the story even more gripping. Turow captures the courtroom’s pressure and complexity without losing the plot’s drama.

This novel just makes sense—especially if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by your emotions. The Giver explores a world where feelings are muted or erased altogether, and it raises powerful questions about what we lose when we give up emotional depth for the sake of order. It’s a thoughtful, haunting look at memory, choice, and what it truly means to be human. It’s a classic for young adults but just as impactful for adults, too.

Given the current political climate, this story feels especially relevant. The story’s plot and conclusion is a stark reminder of what happens when people become so consumed by power or ideology that they stop seeing others as people. Dehumanization doesn’t just harm those on the receiving end. It erodes the conscience of everyone involved. Through the eyes of a child, Boyne shows how innocence and cruelty can exist side by side and how dangerous it is when we forget that the people we marginalize are still people. This novel captures that truth with heartbreaking clarity.

Fante’s writing reminds me of Don Carpenter because it is unflinching, raw, somewhat dark, and deeply human. Fante dives into the grittier side of life, touching on poverty, religion, ambition, and the emotional rollercoaster of trying to be a writer. It’s not a glamorous story, but that’s exactly what makes it work. Fante weaves in relationships and everyday interactions that feel both harsh and oddly tender along the way. Ask the Dust is a quick read, but it lingers.