This book in three words: self-aware, witty, propulsive

Description: With little evidence, would-be author P.J. Larkin serves a “nibble” on the trendy new social-media app Crave, accusing editor George Dunn of stealing the novel she submitted to him for publication. The nibble shoots to the top of the site’s Popular Menu Items, and soon George is embroiled in a scandal, his job and book deal in jeopardy. When it comes down to both authors to justify the facts behind their fictions, P.J. and George find themselves choosing between telling secrets they never wanted to reveal or facing the public’s scorn.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

There is something so wonderfully meta about a book written about publishing. Beach Read, Yellowface, The Plot, The Other Black Girl—I ate all of them up. A Complete Fiction is the newest (and rightfully deserved) addition to this microgenre.

R. L. Maizes sets the scene of two warring authors amidst an industry that pits writers against one another, as if there’s a finite audience of readers to compete over. That scarcity mindset (amplified by social media mob mentality and public callouts) becomes a pressure cooker for George and P.J., and proves how little it takes for resentment to tip into accusation.

Maizes doesn’t stop there. She skewers publishing, feminism, ego, and cancel culture without fear and with a heavy dose of humor.

Reading this as a publicist, I couldn’t help but delight in how accurately the book captures how public image and timing shape a book launch, sometimes (regrettably) more than the book’s content itself. No matter how much an artist wants to separate from their art, they never truly can.

And, boy, do P.J. and George try.

One of the book’s smartest moves is how it plays with reader expectations. P.J. is initially positioned as the victim: a wronged, overlooked writer finally getting her due. But as the story unfolds, that framing becomes increasingly unstable. P.J. emerges as the more unlikeable (and, ultimately, less redeemable) character, while George only grows more human. You’re constantly pulled between disgust and empathy, driving the point home that you never really can judge a book by its cover.

Yet, even as P.J. digs her heels in and digs her hole deeper, you can’t help but understand her plight. So often the world uses the notion “art for art’s sake” to justify a lack of recognition, compensation, and validation for artists’ work, skill, and time. Is it so wrong to want to sell the work you’ve spent years writing?

But what I admired the most was the book’s balance of serious subject matter—violence, public shaming, the ethics of a story that isn’t your own—without becoming heavy-handed. You find yourself pausing to think, only to be pulled back in by the next dry witticism from P.J. As morally grey as she is, she really is hilarious.

A Complete Fiction is the kind of book that makes you laugh first, then think later. Go pick it up. It’s a book any writer will relate to and undoubtedly enjoy.

2025 isn’t quite over yet, but in honor of gift guide season (our most-celebrated season here in the PR industry), I’m sharing my top reads early, in case anyone needs a recommendation for the fiction-obsessed reader in their life.

At time of writing, I’ve read 52 books in 2025. Here are the ones that earned all five stars:

P.S. Did you know that by shopping through Bookshop.org, you can select your local indie bookshop and ensure all profits of your purchase go to them? Make sure to click “choose a bookstore” in the top right corner before shopping. (No, these aren’t affiliate links)

Mystery Novels

High Season by Katie Bishop (2025)

Perfect For: your niece/nephew with a true crime TikTok

Welcome to Murder Week by Karen Dukess (2025)

Perfect For: anyone who watched (or read!) The Thursday Murder Club and loved it

Historical Fiction

Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid (2025)

Perfect For: fans of kickass women in STEM

The Briar Club by Kate Quinn (2024)

Perfect For: fans of multi-POV murder mysteries

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes (2019)

Perfect For: Greek mythology lovers and strong female leads

Contemporary Fiction

Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt (2022)

Perfect For: people who HAVE to read the book before the movie!

Real Americans by Rachel Khong (2024)

Perfect For: fans of multi-generational, multi-POV family sagas.

The Dinner List by Rebecca Serle (2018)

Perfect For: book club members who enjoy a dash of magical realism

Romance Novels

Alone with You in the Ether by Olivie Blake (2020)

Perfect For: romantics who normally cringe at romcoms

The Good Part by Sophie Cousens (2023)

Perfect For: that one relative in their twenties who has nothing figured out

Silvercloack by L. K. Steven (2025)

Perfect For: those who grew up with Harry Potter, and grew into Romantasy

Unsolicited Manuscript is an independently run newsletter. All opinions are my own and do not reflect the views of my employer, company, or any other organization.

If you abide by the law of Stephen King, the minimum amount of time you should let a draft sit (or breathe, or marinate, however you prefer) is six weeks. That meant I suddenly had over a month with no writing prospects in sight. Whatever was I going to do?

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Start writing a new book, of course. (Obviously, this is not for everyone. Reading and journaling are also completely helpful things to do during this time.)

As a member of a local writing group (psst, read my post on why you should join one), I often hear people say they struggle to come up with story ideas.

Luckily enough, I’ve never encountered this problem myself. Coming up with new story ideas is one of my favorite parts of the process. Brainstorming doesn’t have to be this overwhelming, months-long process. In fact, I brainstormed the ideas for my last two stories in single sittings.

But, of course, every brain works differently, so I’m rounding up three different methods for coming up with your next favorite story idea. Hopefully, one of them resonates with you.

1. Using Comp Titles

This is my preferred method. In the industry, “comp titles,” or comparative titles, are other books in the same subgenre and/or with the same themes, tropes, or topics as your manuscript.

Wait—if your manuscript isn’t written yet (or doesn’t even have a guiding idea yet), how can you find a comp title for it?

Think of it like reverse engineering. Instead of picking comp titles from your book, formulate your book from its ideal comp titles.

Start by making a list of recent books you read that you enjoyed. Then, reflect on what you enjoyed about them. This can be the genre, characters, pacing, setting, themes, voice—anything. Write down a few bullet points, then move on to the next book you enjoyed and do the same.

Once you have a list going, look back over them all and notice what popped up the most. For me, I’d written down “character-driven, contemporary fiction, themes of rivalry, and a dash of romance.”

From there, I rolled those key ideas around in my mind, tested out a few character and conflict ideas, and BAM—a new story idea appeared.

2. The Stephen King Dual-Idea Method

Can you tell I just finished On Writing by Stephen King? It was such a spectacular book that it’s been permeating all of my recent thoughts (and Substack posts). In the book, King mentions that some of his best story ideas came from the convergence of two totally separate thoughts.

For example, one day you might find yourself thinking about how the internet seems so obsessed with cold police cases. Then, your friend might ask if you want to get your tarot cards read.

BAM—what if a psychic were hired by a police department to solve closed cases? (Did I steal this from the TV show Psych? Yes, I definitely did.)

If you’re the kind of person who has random what-if thoughts throughout the day, try keeping a running list. Then, go over it later and test out different combinations for inspiration.

3. Start with a Character

Often, writers think of books as plot first, characters second. But that doesn’t always have to be the case. Any book is only as interesting as the character leading us through it.

If you find yourself getting caught up on brainstorming new plotlines, try fleshing out a single character instead. Ask yourself what they look like, where they live, how they dress, where they work, how they talk, what their home looks like, who their friends are, who their enemies are, what they like, what they dislike, and anything else you can think of.

Once your character is fleshed out, reflect. What kind of conflicts might that character experience? What kind of situations do they often find themselves in? Then, build your story from there.

—

All opinions are my own and do not reflect the views of my employer, company, or any other organization.

This book in three words: touching, lyrical, romantic

Description: J is an accidental wedding singer. Unlike most wedding singers, he writes an original song for every couple—his way of finding out about the small, strange things that brought them together and the hopeful, vulnerable feelings they’re experiencing. J’s own love life is in a state of flux. His girlfriend is off to New York for work, and as her life grows bigger and busier without him in it, he finds it harder to stick to a happy tune. He doesn’t know whether to encourage the soon-to-be-wed couples or warn them. When complications hit and love is tested, is there any way to sing through all the noise?

⭐⭐⭐⭐

While reading this book, what struck me the most was the perspective. It’s J (the person in the relationship who was left behind while his ex-girlfriend goes off to “find herself”) who takes the narrative. It feels like the flip side of the traditional “empowering feminist” narrative, and that inversion is what makes Songs for Other People’s Weddings so compelling.

Essentially, the whole book tackles the idea of romantic casualties, or those caught in the crossfire of break-ups who find themselves hurting without deserving it. I spent most of the book waiting for J to find the courage to officially end things with his girlfriend and choose himself over a partner who quite literally couldn’t care less about his feelings. Again, rooting for a break-up is another inverse of what you’d expect for a romance novel. And yet, the book still manages to be entirely about love. The messy kind, not the shiny, cinematic kind.

There’s something beautifully meta about that. Other People’s Weddings examines love as an evolving thing that adapts, disappoints, and survives—or doesn’t. The book is hopeful and depressing and utterly realistic all at once.

This wouldn’t be a complete review without touching on the rotating cast of engaged characters whom J meets along the way. The songs J writes for them are genuinely lovely (shout out Jens Lekman), and Levithan does an amazing job making each character—however fleeting they are in the narrative—distinct, flawed, and human.

I will admit that I kept waiting for a big twist, or a revelation, or something novelistic to happen. But it never does, and that’s the point. Real life isn’t a novelty, and neither are human relationships. It’s a “journey” book, not a “destination” book. In the end, I truly admired it and all the pieces of humanity that went into it.

This book in three words: poetic, unflinching, blurred

Description: Jude Woods is on the brink of eviction. Pregnant, jobless, and mother to Evan and Virginia, she has three days to box up her family’s life and find a safe place to live. When Jude’s contractions flare just as their power is shut off, she rushes to the hospital instructing Evan and Virginia to hide in their car in the surrounding fields. If the children are discovered outside alone, they will be taken from her. Jude labors through the night in a crowded emergency room while the twins, desperate in the heat of the cramped car and spurred by their wild imaginations, strike out along the dangerous riverbank in search of a new home for their growing family. As night hurtles toward the morning lockout, both mother and children reckon with what it means to live and dream in a modern America insistent on slamming doors.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

If there were such a thing as literary Impressionism, Crown would be it. The prose is hazy and precise in the way that only poetry can be. It was the kind of book you devour in a single day, racing through the pages even as you dread the ending. It’s the kind of book that insists on being read quickly, but lingers long after.

What struck me most was how the novel held such opposites in tension: it’s as full of hope and wonder and love as it is of pain and hunger and fear. There’s no neat separation, no clean border between beauty and brutality.

The shifting perspectives are another of Crown’s strengths. Each voice (Jude, Virginia, and Evan’s) is impressively distinct, yet together they weave into one overarching narrative that feels almost choral. I was impressed by how much raw youth the author managed to imbue into Evan and Virginia, while Jude’s voice carried a weight and maturity far beyond her 25 years. The book never lingered in one headspace too long, instead flitting between them like a ladybug caught on the wind.

And then there was the final perspective: you. I can’t say I’ve ever read a novel where the reader is asked to embody an unborn child. It was fascinating, odd, and strangely impressive. I’m always a fan of a daring second-person perspective, and this one made me sit up straighter. It’s a choice that could have gone wrong in less capable hands, but here it felt bold and eerily fitting.

I’d recommend Crown to lovers of literary fiction and poetry, or to readers who aren’t afraid of a novel that’s more atmosphere than plot.

This book in three words: snowballing, raw, empathetic

Description: When Hazel Blum’s father gets a tenured job at a prestigious college, she and her family relocate from Brooklyn to a middle-of-nowhere town in Maine. With her mother, Claire, a clothing designer, and her father, Gus, an American Studies professor, Hazel and her eleven-year-old brother, Wolf, slowly acclimate to their new lives and connect with the town’s sprawling community. That is, until Hazel’s new principal propositions her on the very first day of her senior year. When she turns him down, her decision tips the fickle balance of idyllic Riverburg and impacts everyone in her family. Tracking through the perspectives of each member of the Blum family, this relatable fish-out-of-water story handles big issues with great empathy and humor, capturing the love that unites one unforgettable family and the essence of life in small-town Maine.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Hazel Says No is a fantastic debut. I went into the book knowing nothing of what was to come (the book copy leaves out the crucial inciting incident with the principal), and once the plotline became clear, I was worried. I wasn’t sure I was ready to get into a high school story about attempted sexual assault.

In a way, this book is about that. In a very different way, it isn’t about that at all.

Gross’s novel is deeply character-driven, with the plot serving more as a catalyst for personal growth than the central focus. She tells the story through the POV of each Blum family member: Hazel, her younger brother, and their two parents. Each person had such a distinct voice—I found myself genuinely laughing at Wolf’s tween jargon and angst, while relating to Hazel’s quiet fatalism. Claire and Gus were quirky in their own unique ways, and each of them had a beautifully satisfying arc by the end.

What really stood out to me was how the story captured the messiness of real life. Hazel Says No is about an imperfect family dealing with imperfect circumstances in an imperfect place, doing their best to navigate it all.

The writing walks a fine line between heartbreaking and feel-good, but it never loses its sense of honesty. It was a joy watching Hazel come into her own, really take flight, and then—just as powerfully—know when to land. Often, I get so frustrated with high school stories because the characters constantly make the wrong choices. But Hazel doesn’t. She makes all the right ones—she’s just forced to choose from a series of bad options. That’s what makes the plot so compelling. Anyone, regardless of age, could be Hazel. Her thinking, her choices, and her emotional landscape all feel deeply relatable and real.

I would recommend Hazel Says No to fans of character-driven fiction and anyone looking for family drama (without all the domestic cattiness).

What I had aimed to be an 80K word draft was conspicuously short, just barely touching 60K words. Yikes.

Historically, I’m an overwriter. As in, a first draft might end up upwards of 30K words over my target goal. Underwriting is an entirely new problem for me. Was my plot too thin? My descriptions too sparse? Had I forgotten to add subplots?

After some desperate Googling, I read that some people underwrite their first draft on purpose. What a shocking discovery. Theoretically, it gives them the freedom to get through the meat of their first draft faster and fill in the details after the fact. This was, in a way, a comforting thought (however unintentional my underwriting was).

The truth of the matter is that there is no right way of writing your first draft. But if you’re in a similar situation, perhaps my concern might be a little comforting. (And it would comfort me too!)

Common Symptoms of a Too-Short First Draft

Note: I’ve decided to call these “symptoms” rather than “errors” in the hopes of optimism. I’m “diagnosing” my manuscript, after all.

According to the internet, there are a few common symptoms of a too-short manuscript. A noncomprehensive list includes:

• Not enough world-building

• Not enough internalization (showing your character’s thinking)

• Oversimplified action scenes

• Not enough subplots (or any)

• Too easy conflicts

• Not enough backstory

• Two-dimensional characters

When combing through your first draft, try to keep these symptoms in mind. It might help to read through your draft in its entirety before ever taking out a red marker. This will help you envision the plot as a whole image, rather than in pieces.

Symptom #1: Not Enough Descriptive Imagery

My novel is set in New York City, a place that even if you haven’t been to, you can most likely picture. But that doesn’t mean I can (or should!) get away with 90% internal thoughts/dialogue/action and only 10% description. (Which I definitely tried to do in this first draft).

One thing I really noticed I was missing was visual cues for the passing of time. I talk about the wind a lot (don’t ask me why), but hardly mention the change in the color of leaves, or the fact that the local cafe has begun to serve peppermint mochas.

Symptom #2: Montaging Through Important Scenes

I love a good montage. They’re an efficient way to pass time while still giving hints of foreshadowing, character growth, and context. However, it’s important to realize when to move fast on purpose, and when to take it slow.

After reading through my first draft, I realized that I flew past some scenes that really would have been more emotionally impactful if drawn out. A good way to test if a scene is montage-able is to ask yourself: What changes for the character in this moment? If the answer is “not much,” then sure, a montage might be enough. But if it’s a turning point—emotionally, relationally, or narratively—it deserves room to breathe.

Symptom #3: Not Laying Enough Emotional Groundwork

You know when you’re reading a novel and two characters with seemingly nothing in common spontaneously fall in love? It’s the worst.

The same problem can apply to all emotional arcs. My novel centers around two cousins who grow into enemies over time. As you can imagine, becoming enemies doesn’t happen overnight—there needs to be building tensions, resentment, anger, and hatred, starting way before they hit the climactic scene.

I was so focused on really nailing the dialogue and strain when they finally go head-to-head, and neglected the groundwork that would make their fight more convincing.

In Conclusion

Needless to say, I have plenty of content to add to my first draft. 80K words no longer seems out of reach!

—

Do you tend to underwrite or overwrite?

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This book in three words: emergent, non-linear, triumphant

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Book description: As the Great War rages, a French pianist sits down to play an arrestingly original sonata—a piece so strange and inspired that it could change the course of classical music. The moment is captured on wax cylinders, the recording medium of the day. But in the tumult of war the fragile cylinders vanish, and with them the identity of the brilliant composer and the virtuoso pianist. A century later, five timeworn wax cylinders land on the desk of Ben Weil, a revered classical music producer. Brought low by a painful divorce, Ben throws himself into unlocking the sonata’s mysteries. But when a renowned pianist stumbles upon the work and takes credit for unearthing it, he’s swept into a lie that could shatter his reputation and his private life at a stroke.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

As someone who grew up in the musical world (classical choral music, not classical piano), this book was fascinating. To write any novel is ambitious, but to write a novel that centers completely around describing sound—that’s another challenge entirely. And yet, Hamlin proves himself to the task.

Sonata in Wax hinges on the reader understanding that the sonata in question is, without a doubt, revolutionary. And in sweeping passages of metaphor and creativity and emotion, Hamlin drives that understanding home. Technically speaking, I’ve never heard the sonata, but in some ways, I feel I have.

It is, perhaps, worth noting that if extensive musical description is not your cup of tea, then neither is this novel. There are multiple scenes dedicated to this singular pursuit to the point of recursion. Which, on occasion, left me yearning for more conflict or stakes or the traditional arcs I’ve come to associate with novels, but also made me challenge my perception of character building. Much of Ben’s development is shown through his relationship with the sonata and music as a whole.

However, what surprised me most about this novel was the dual-timeline perspective left completely unmentioned in the book description. Ben Weil is only one protagonist—Elizabeth Garnier, circa 1918, splits 50% of the narration. At times, her chapters were my favorite. She was a wonderfully fleshed-out character, and the description of WWI America was fascinating. So many Great War books focus on the men in Europe, not the battles the women were fighting against disease at home.

My only gripe with Elizabeth’s chapters is that the stakes were not as clearly established as with Ben. Her life was interesting to read about and provided needed context to the sonata’s conception, but it often felt like we just were witnessing things happen to her. She didn’t have concrete goals that the reader could become invested in.

But the non-linear structure went far beyond the dual-timelines: between flashing back and forth from 1918 to 2018, Ben and Elizabeth’s own narrations are non-sequential. In one chapter, we might experience this week, last week, and two weeks from now—in that order. Luckily, Sonata in Wax is a slow-building book; if you rushed through it, you’d miss plenty.

In all, I would recommend Sonata in Wax to any reader with an appreciation of classic arts or curiosity of Great War America. The ending was triumphant, the characters were realized, and the writing was beautiful.

This book in three words: feel-good, mysterious, quirky

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When thirty-four-year-old Cath loses her impulsive, thrill-seeking, yet absentee mother, she is ambivalent. Preferring a life of quiet, unassuming routine herself, Cath is perplexed to find her mother bought them both tickets for an upcoming “murder week” in England’s Peak District: a whole town has come together to stage a fake murder mystery to attract tourism to their quaint hamlet. Baffled but helplessly intrigued by her mother’s secret purchase, Cath decides to go on the trip herself. Teaming up with her two cottage-mates, both ardent mystery lovers, Cath sets about solving the “crime” and begins to unravel shocking truths about her mother along the way. Amidst a fling—or something more—with the handsome local maker of artisanal gin, Cath and her irresistibly charming fellow sleuths will find this week of fake murder may help them face up to a very real crossroads in their own lives.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I opened this book with absolutely no idea what I was about to read. Quite literally, the ARC copy I received had only praise and no description on the back cover, and no inside flap to speak of. It was a fascinating experiment: would Murder Week turn into a rom-com? A tragic comedy? A fake murder-turned-real murder? Or an exploration of intergenerational drama?

In the end, it was a little bit of everything—a sort of hybrid feel-good novel that didn’t shy away from tough realities all at the same time. I love that it didn’t pretend to be one genre or bother including any specific genre conventions. It was unapologetically itself.

Even though no one actually dies, Murder Week kept me on my toes the whole time. I had fun making my own guesses about the mystery at the heart of the contest (I definitely did not guess it correctly) while attempting to make sense of Cath’s own genealogical mystery (I was a little closer on this one). Plus, there is such whimsy in the British pastoral town. And the side characters’ personalities just leapt off the page.

Even though Murder Week is set far from any beach, and only includes just the perfect single-scoop of romance, this is the beach read of the summer. I would recommend Dukess’ novel to anyone with a sense of humor or whimsy, and particularly to cozy mystery fans.

For you antsy readers, I’ll break it down really fast:

Step 1: Make a reviewer profile on your platform of choice, plus a NetGalley profile.

Step 2: Start subscribing to publishing trade newsletters.

Step 2: Enter every giveaway and interest form possible.

Step 3: Watch free books arrive and submit your reviews!

And for anyone who wants a more thorough step-by-step:

Step 1:

Walk your butt over to the review platform of your choice, and sign up. These days, your options are endless: Goodreads, Amazon, Fable, BookBub, BookSiren, StoryGraph, Substack, shall I go on?

The point is, you should have at least one active profile that you are willing to consistently update. If you aren’t planning to post reviews to social media, book publicists will want to make sure you’re going to post a review somewhere. Otherwise, they won’t send you books. PR copies are a trade, not a gift.

You’ll also need to make a NetGalley profile for digital ARCs. It’s super easy to sign up, and it’s even easier to start getting ARCs sent directly to your Kindle, Nook, iPad, or preferred device. NetGalley also asks you to submit your review directly to them, as well as provide links to your other review profiles.

Step 2:

Go to Publishers Weekly and Shelf Awareness. Each newsletter sends daily email blasts with industry news, interviews, and sponsored ads. Only, if you look a little closer at those “ads,” you’ll realize they’re something even better: they’re clickable entry forms for ARC copies. More on that below.

Personally, I subscribe to PW Daily, PW Children’s Bookshelf, PW Picks, The Book Life Report, and Shelf Awareness Pro.

Step 3:

Check out the following image. See where it says “Request an early copy”? Bam. Click that, fill out the following form (making sure to link to wherever you’ve created a review profile!), and hit submit. If it asks for your job role, select “reviewer.”

Other ads say “Enter to win a copy!” — those are fantastic, too. Most people who read industry newsletters are, well, industry professionals. They aren’t entering giveaways for free books—they’re already swimming in free books. That means your competition is slim, and your chances of winning are 100000x higher than those Goodreads giveaways (because, seriously, I’ve been applying to those since middle school and have not won once).

The more forms you enter, the higher your chances. However, it’s important to only apply for books that you have time for and are willing to read and review. Otherwise, you’re taking that opportunity from the author. Don’t be that guy.

Step 4:

Start getting free books! It might feel like you’re not winning anything, but books might also just start showing up on your doorstep unannounced (they did for me). What can I say? Sending confirmation emails takes time, and publicists have a million other things to do.

Make sure to actually read and review the books you apply for. Don’t ruin this for the rest of us.

Happy reading!

This book in three words: reflective, chaotic, sharp.

Summary: Now in her sixties, Arden Rice has seen it all: three marriages, hardship and wealth, choices she both regrets and defends, all fueled by the same fierce desire—to give her daughter the best possible life. At least, that’s what Arden tells herself. But nothing is simple. Arden is haunted by her impetuous history, with its trail of damage and deception. Yet she’s finally made a life where she can be her best self—until the unthinkable happens, and a train engineer’s lapse in attention leaves two of the people closest to her dead. As she uncovers hard truths about the people she thought she knew best, while simultaneously reflecting on her own worst decisions, Arden must face questions she’s spent a lifetime avoiding: Which acts define a person? Can someone be better than her worst acts?

⭐⭐⭐⭐

I meant what the subheading says: reading this book was watching a very self-aware train wreck in slow motion—pun not intended. Arden Rice is a tough cookie, but the decisions she made to save herself throughout the years have condemned more than a handful of sorry souls.

In her sixty years of life, she’s left broken hearts and broken reputations in her wake, each time convincing herself that not only did she do herself a favor, she did her victims a favor too. In this way, Arden is the perfect unreliable narrator, which is one of my favorite tropes.

Mother-daughter relationships just so happen to be another one of my favorite tropes. The publisher makes the comparison to Tom Lake by Ann Pratchett, and it’s not without legs. Yet, instead of revealing a youthful history of novelty and levity that eventually softens into the humble content of married life, Arden’s youth is more of a garbage fire that somehow puts itself out and relights itself on the same coals from the last fire.

And while I spent half of the novel wondering how on earth someone could justify such mistakes, I spent the other half marvelling at how much I came to like Arden anyway. At times, I even found myself envying how relentlessly confident she was that she would land on her feet, no matter how high flames raged behind her.

She’s an anti-hero for sure, but the fact that she owns up to her shortcomings makes you want to forgive her, even as she struggles to forgive her daughter for repeating so many of her own mistakes. Plus, I’ve always had a soft spot for senior narrators.

And on top of all that, the writing was fantastic. It was blunt, unflinching, and shamelessly real. Arden’s voice is extremely realized, and even though the prose alternates between a first-person past and a third-person present, I never felt jarred. Every turn of phrase had my eyes widening in admiration—Barbara Linn Probst is clever, articulate, and artistic, and she lets you know it on every page. While I thought Arden’s character arc was really well envisioned, I just wish we got a little more time to marinate in it at the end.

I’d recommend Roll the Sun Across the Sky to just about anyone who enjoys family drama and a flagrant female protagonist.

This book in three words: hopeful, winding, raw.

Summary: It’s the summer of ’96 and best friends (and secret girlfriends) Hannah and Sam are driving across the country from Long Beach, New York, to the fabled queer paradise of San Francisco, free from the harsh gazes of their neighbors and the stifling demands of Hannah’s devout Orthodox Jewish mother . . . even if the move means leaving behind Hannah’s beloved Bubbe. The financial strains of West Coast living push the girls to start stripping at The Chez Paree, and Hannah eventually accepts an escort arrangement with an older butch lesbian. But as Hannah and Sam grow apart, Hannah is forced to ask what does San Francisco mean to her alone—a space rich with queer possibility or an intimidating, unfamiliar place just as lonely as the one she’d left behind?

⭐⭐⭐⭐

Shelved as literary fiction, but more accurately squished between coming-of-age YA and slice-of-life fiction, Girls Girls Girls is a beautifully confused novel. It reads casually, yet tackles some serious topics—from queer identity in the nineties to the ethics of sex work. Hannah’s life alternates from the bubbly joy of a new teenage crush to the crushing grief of losing a family member.

The only constant, ironically, isn’t Sam, the girl Hannah has traveled across the country with—she’s off having her own quarter-life crisis for most of the novel—but the tough-love setting of San Francisco. The city throws challenges Hannah’s way day after day, but also offers her a lifeline time after time, never truly letting her drown.

And in that eternal will-she-survive-or-won’t-she tension, Shoshana von Blanckensee draws the plot of the novel. That’s why why I categorized Girls Girls Girls as a hybrid slice-of-life story: there’s no overarching conflict, no antagonist to face. All Hannah wants to do is pay her rent and be happy. It’s not the highest-stakes novel I’ve read this year, but it’s one of the most real. As someone who made the opposite migration (SF to NYC) as a young woman, I empathize with the determination to succeed at all costs, and the identity shifts that happen, whether you intend to change or not.

For me, the most compelling plot line was the one hardly even mentioned in the book’s description: Hannah’s relationship with her grandmother, Bubbe. She’s the ultimate hype woman enveloped in a feeble body bursting with wrinkles and love. She’s always there to offer just the right semi-vague advice—nudging Hannah to arrive at her own conclusions when she’s at a crossroads. Maybe I loved her so much because she reminded me of my own grandmother—but isn’t that a sign of great literature? Fiction so persuasive that it’s reminiscent of truth? It doesn’t really matter. Bubbe’s the best and that’s that.

But I would be out of my mind not to mention the incredible depiction of the SF queer scene in the 90s. In the prologue, Shoshana makes note of using outdated language with fondness (the 90s understanding of gender and sexuality is much more limited than our understanding today), and you can feel that fondness bleeding through the pages. The lesbian bar! The all-female painting crew! The conspiratorial kindness of a neighborhood barista! The joy of finding language to describe your experience! The awe of joining a community of of people like you! This book was a window into a world I just barely wasn’t old enough to witness myself.

Girls Girls Girls was hope, and honesty, and fear all wrapped into one beautifully-covered package. It’s not a hang-on-for-your-life adventure, or even a head-over-heels romance, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s just one eighteen-year-old finding her way.

This book in three words: complex, suspenseful, unreliable.

Summary: On a beautiful summer’s night twenty years ago, troubled seventeen-year-old Tamara Drayton was found floating face-down in the pool of her family’s idyllic mansion in the south of France. Her sister Nina, at six years old, became the youngest person ever to testify in a French murder trial. Because she’s the only one who saw what happened—who watched as her babysitter, Josie Jackson, pushed Tamara under the water, and held her there until she stopped breathing. Or did she? Twenty years later, Nina's memories have faded, leaving her with no idea of what really transpired that night. When a new true crime documentary about her sister’s murder is announced, Nina thinks this might be her chance to finally find out.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

If you’re anything like me, you read this description and immediately were hooked. I’m a sucker for an unreliable narrator and High Season did not disappoint.

Set against the backdrop of a glittering French coastal town, you can practically taste the salt in the air and see azure blue on the pages. But while the town is beautiful, Nina’s experience there is anything but. She lives with her new-money family (think Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo) in a crumbling mansion atop the French hillside, mirroring the eerie decay of Nina’s own memory.

Nina was only six years old when her sister Tamara drowned, but now, twenty years later, she can't remember what she really saw. Her brother Blake and her mother have all but erased Tamara from their lives, creating a chilling silence around her death. When a true crime documentary starts digging up the past, Nina takes it as a sign to finally find the truth. With Nina now a child psychologist, memory and how it shapes us (and betrays us) is at the core of the novel.

The way the novel handles the split POVs is absolutely perfect. We hear from Josie, Tamara, and Hannah (Josie's best friend) during that fateful summer and the tense present, along with 25-year-old Nina. I never felt like there were too many perspectives—each character is fully fleshed out, complex, and wholly unique. As the story unfolds, you realize that each of them knows something different, each is hiding something, and the full truth only clicks into place in the final pages. The tension is steady and relentless, but it’s never over the top (i.e. perfect for someone like me who isn’t fully into bone-chilling suspense and gory details).

High Season was eerie, intriguing, and a little heartbreaking. For anyone who loves true crime documentaries, unreliable narrators, and family dramas simmering under the surface, this book is a total must-read. I’m still thinking about it days later.

⭐️⭐️⭐️✨

Summary: The year is 2059. For two centuries, the Republic of Scion has led an oppressive campaign against unnaturalness in Europe. In London, Paige Mahoney holds a high rank in the criminal underworld. The right hand of the ruthless White Binder, Paige is a dreamwalker, a rare and formidable kind of clairvoyant. Under Scion law, she commits treason simply by breathing. When Paige is arrested for murder, she meets the mysterious founders of Scion, who have designs on her uncommon abilities. If she is to survive and escape, Paige must use every skill at her disposal – and put her trust in someone who ought to be her enemy.

As someone who works in book publicity, I can say with conviction that whoever ran the PR campaign for this series rebrand deserves a raise. And whoever redesigned the covers? Get them a bonus, stat. I only picked up this 2013 dystopian-urban-fantasy hybrid was because A) I kept seeing author interviews everywhere, and B) the new covers are so pretty—so, yeah, the publisher made a good choice on this one.

Though, I have to say, as someone who’s 22, it’s a little intimidating picking up a book series that was published by a 21-year-old. Throughout the book, I found myself alternating between picking apart the plot, wondering, could I have written something this intricate?, and thinking, how would I have done this better?

That push and pull kind of sums up my entire relationship to The Bone Season. It was good—even impressive for someone so young—but perhaps a little too ambitious to be great.

Shannon builds an entirely new world from scratch (only the skeleton of London’s neighborhoods remains as we know it). It’s ambitious in a Brandon Sanderson kind of way, complete with a deeply complex (and borderline unmemorizable) magical caste system. Just when you’re starting to get a grip on how things work, Paige is yanked into another world with a completely different set of rules. The inciting incident isn’t just a twist, it’s a full genre swerve that took me another fifty pages to reorient to.

Paige, at times, also falls prey to some of the cliche savior complexes of 2010 dystopian media (how is the world always relying on one 19-year-old girl?), but Shannon does a great job making her feel human. The snarky narration and ever-sarcastic dialogue kept me laughing throughout.

So, even though I had a few bones to pick with the book (hahah, get it?), that’s not to say that I wasn’t hooked. I burned through all six hundred pages in less than a week, then moved on to the second book in a blink. The world-building, while confusing, was innovative and definitely unique. She did a great job grounding the reader with visuals, slang, and well-timed context. I also, admittedly, really enjoyed the romantic subplot. While it takes literally the whole book to come to any sort of fruition, Warden and Paige are a textbook enemies-to-lovers slowburn, and their completely different personalities played off of each other well.

I’d recommend The Bone Season to any fantasy fan who’s nostalgic for that 2010s Divergent-era, grassroots-rebellion, chosen-one kind of vibe. Just one warning (and this is what the glossy PR campaign won’t tell you): the series started in 2013 and still isn’t finished. With two books yet to come and no clear timeline in sight, it’s giving George R.R. Martin–level uncertainty. Proceed at your own risk (but maybe admire the covers while you wait).

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Summary: Set in Washington, D.C., in 1950, the story follows the women of Briarwood House, a rundown all-female boardinghouse where secrets lurk behind every white picket fence. When the elegant and enigmatic widow Grace March moves into the attic, she unknowingly becomes the glue binding an unlikely group of neighbors: Fliss, a polished Englishwoman with a crumbling facade; Nora, the police officer’s daughter caught up with a gangster; Bea, a former baseball star left adrift after the women’s league dissolved; Claire, a queer woman working three jobs to one day afford a home for herself; Reka, a resentful 71-year old Hungarian refugee with a hidden talent for painting; and Arlene, a gung-ho McCarthy supporter ready to sniff out communists at every turn. But Grace has secrets of her own, and when a shocking act of violence shatters the fragile peace of Briarwood, the women must finally ask: Who is the real enemy among them?

After reading that summary, you’re probably thinking to yourself all those characters in one book sounds a little ambitious—and you’d be right. To make matters all the more impressive, Kate Quinn gives each and every one of them the spotlight, slowly rotating through each one’s first-person perspective. At first, every time I reached a new chapter, I found myself thinking, Ugh, but I was just getting invested in the last POV! And then, two minutes later, I’d be completely absorbed again in the new main character. Every single one of these women (and Pete!) burrowed their way into my heart in a matter of pages.

And don’t even get me started on the house itself. You’d think that adding a touch of magical realism to an otherwise grounded, political novel wouldn’t work—but Kate Quinn pulls it off flawlessly. The sections narrated by the house were some of the most poetic and moving parts of the book. It was a brilliant way to act as a “fly on the wall” for key moments, especially the police scenes, without tethering them to any one character’s perspective.

If you’re a longtime fan of Kate Quinn and you’re wary about the conspicuous lack of mid-century warfare and espionage—don’t be. She brings all the emotional complexity of war to a time period that’s often painted as idyllic, revealing a country on the brink of change, fighting against itself at every turn. The Briar Club is historical fiction at its finest: immersive, thought-provoking, and utterly unputdownable.

Normally, I have a hard time with books that span multiple years—mostly because they tend to start way too young. No offense, but when I pick up adult fiction, I want to read about adults, not thirteen-year-olds. This book threads that needle beautifully, covering five years but starting when Lucy is twenty-four. We still get to see her and Felix transition through adulthood (frontal lobe development much?), so we get that deep character arc without trudging through ten years of adolescence. Also, their chemistry? Off the charts. Somehow, Carley managed to pull off a love-at-first-sight (or, well, lust) romance without making it feel tacky or unearned. They simply fit—flawed, messy, and real.

I also adored Lucy and Bridget’s friendship. It’s one of the most accurate depictions of best friends in their 20s that I’ve read. Your 20s are weird—full of career changes, family grief, new apartments, new boyfriends. And sometimes, whether you mean to or not, you start drifting from the people who once felt like your whole world. But despite all that, Lucy and Bridget fight to stay close, and their bond proves to be unbreakable (even after some serious emotional whiplash). I thought Carley did a stellar job balancing this B plot with the A plot of Felix and Lucy’s romance and intertwined them really nicely at the end.

If I had one small critique, it’s that the infamous “third rule” (a.k.a. don’t fall in love with my brother) should’ve been explained earlier. At first, it just kind of hangs there, feeling a little flimsy and cliche—when in reality, there’s a solid reason behind it! But that’s a minor gripe. I promise you, this book is not tacky. In fact, I was so hooked that I brought it to the treadmill because I physically couldn’t put it down. And, really, that should tell you everything you need to know.

Summary: Cafe owner and New Mexico resident Lena Rodriguez is blindsided when her long-term boyfriend dumps her right before what should have been their engagement trip. To make matters worse, her reaction goes viral. Determined not to let heartbreak (or internet infamy) ruin her plans, she heads to Bermuda solo—ready to escape, reset, and have a tropical cocktail or two. But her getaway takes an unexpected turn when she meets Ash, a charming local who pulls her into a century-old mystery involving a missing person and a newly discovered shipwreck.

Lena is what you might call a cringe protagonist—the kind of person who does wildly outlandish things that I would pay GREAT sums of money to never have to do in my life. And yet, you can’t help but love her anyway—or maybe even because of it all. She’s like an alter ego version of yourself to whom the rules simply do not apply, and there’s a thrill in living vicariously through her. Even as she drinks straight from a margarita pitcher in a very crowded restaurant. (I mean, haven’t all of us kind of wanted to do that at some point?)

Perhaps what makes Lena so likable—despite the secondhand embarrassment—is how beautifully organic she feels on the page. Dani Keen does an incredible job distinguishing her from the other characters (and from the protagonists in her Six Degrees series). Her dialogue flows naturally, her body language mimics that of a real, breathing woman, and her thoughts come alive in a way that feels authentic.

Dani also does an incredible job bringing Bermuda to life on the page. She has a strong command of descriptive language and strikes the perfect balance between Lena’s observations of the world around her and action/dialogue. I felt like I was surrounded by sparkling blue sea right with them.

But perhaps the novel’s strongest element is the chemistry between Ash and Lena. They have great banter, electric physical attraction, and just the right number of classic “funny to run into you here” moments to keep the romance unfolding at a perfect pace. Their interactions feel both effortless and earned—and any rom-com reader can tell you how important that is.

So why not that elusive fifth star? (be WARNED, the following includes small spoilers!)

Because genre-blending is hard. It’s unexpected, it’s creative, it’s compelling—but it also means juggling multiple audience expectations. Dani nails the rom-com elements, but Wrecked & Rising also weaves in historical fiction, mystery, and magical realism. That’s a lot, and at times, the stitching between genres feels a little forced.

Take the dream sequences, for example. Lena has prophetic/historically accurate dreams that are genuinely eerie. But the way they’re introduced feels abrupt. She immediately takes them seriously, analyzing every last detail, while the reader is left thinking, Is this a known ability? Why does she care so much about a weird dream? We’re never really given a solid answer for why she has them and why she believed they were real. A small tweak, like introducing a family history of dreams or a cultural significance behind them, could have made this element feel more natural and believable (because magical realism only works well when it feels grounded in reality).

I also had a small problem with the detective/mystery elements of the novel. Clues in Wrecked & Rising fall delicately into Lena’s lap, with little misdirection or guesswork required. Where’s the suspense? The thrill of solving the mystery alongside the protagonist? The gut-punch twist when things aren’t what they seem? Without those elements, the mystery arc feels more like a checklist of discoveries rather than a puzzle the reader is dying to solve. I also just wasn’t quite convinced by Lena’s dogged determination to solve Ash’s family mystery—even she didn’t seem to know, either! Multiple times, Lena wonders why she needs to figure it out, only knowing that something is telling her she must. That “something” was a plot hole.

And yet—despite these hiccups—the ending makes up for it and more. Dani managed to weave the different genres together in a way that was both surprising and satisfying. I thought the ambiguous ending was both refreshing and brought much needed realism to the tale.

Interested in reading Lena’s story for yourself? Pre-order Wrecked & Rising before it hits shelves on April 8th.

I received an advance copy of this book from Dani Keen in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

If you’ve ever had even the slightest interest in Greek history or mythology, this book is for you. On the flip side, even if you’re a hardcore history buff or a lifelong Percy Jackson fan who thinks you’ve read them all, I promise A Thousand Ships tells a story you haven’t heard before. Even the author, Natalie Haynes, had to sift through countless historical records to gather the information to write this book, only to find gaps she had to fill in herself (with well-researched, educated guesses, of course). But if the cover didn’t clearly label this as a novel, you’d never guess it was fiction. Or at least, you’d forget almost immediately.

The narrative pulls you in right away with the intimacy of a diary entry—except with the undeniable intrigue of a diary of someone who’s already dead, and you don’t yet know how. At first, I worried the novel would read like an anthology since it tells the story from the perspectives of dozens of women (seriously, the character list at the beginning spans five pages). Usually, I avoid anthologies because I prefer long reading sessions over short bursts, but that wasn’t a problem here. Despite jumping between perspectives, nations, and decades, the narrative felt supernaturally cohesive. The story flowed forward naturally, even as it bounced across oceans and spanned over twenty years.

But the structure wasn’t even my favorite part. What impressed me most was how vividly distinct each woman’s voice felt. From capricious Calliope to resigned Cassandra to wry, sharp-witted Penelope, Haynes gives every character a personality that is both unique and deeply believable. And, the dialogue felt historically authentic without ever feeling scripted or pretentious (which all historical fic readers know is a big deal).

Even more impressive is how Haynes wrings every last drop of empathy from the reader without leaving them completely shattered. She doesn’t shy away from the horrors of the surviving wives and sisters and daughters of heroes killed in battle, unabashedly describing death, depression, and outright monstrosity. Yet, despite all the suffering, I never once wanted to look away. Because even in the face of death, despair, and cruelty, these women remain fiercely brave, dignified, and unbreakable. And that, ultimately, is the point of the book: proving that heroes don’t always wear armor or swing swords. As Haynes makes clear, the women left behind were just as heroic—if not more so—than the men who won (and died for) glory. And if you need proof, just look at this quote from the afterword:

“Achilles doesn’t fight until book eighteen of the twenty-four-book Iliad. He spends the first seventeen books arguing, sulking, asking his mother for help, sulking some more, letting his friend fight in his stead, offering advice, and refusing apologies. But not fighting. Yet we never question that he is a hero.”

What else is there to say? Natalie Haynes is a badass of historic proportions. And A Thousand Ships is a masterpiece. Go read it.

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I rarely read memoirs, because often I find myself disliking the writing style. It’s unsurprising that many people with fascinating life stories often don’t have the writing background to tell them in an artistic and compelling way.

Katherine MacLean had no such problem. The writing was emotive, structurally complex, and, above all, narrative. Each sentence was a joy to read. She didn’t succumb to the bricks of uninterrupted info dump that many memoirs contain, rather breaking up the text often with dialogue that felt so natural I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a perfect memory of each conversation. And the way in which she wove the nonlinear timeline—nothing short of impressive. To put it bluntly, she made chronology her bitch, and that is something many established creatives struggle to do.

So why only four stars? I understand that it can be harsh judging a memoir on plot, because, well, that’s someone’s life we’re talking about here. You can’t just disagree with someone’s personal experience and call it literally criticism. So while it’s true that I did not resonate with much of the content in this book or with many of her life choices, I do think that her underlying messages were a little less underlying and a little more preachy. Midnight Water straddles, and at times falls across, the divide between memoir and self-help.

I wish Katherine the best on Bermuda. You are an extremely talented and loving individual, and I hope you can maintain the peace you worked so hard to achieve.

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