Honor Jones’s Sleep is a quiet devastation, a novel that moves like memory: fragmented, looping, occasionally opaque—but pulsing with emotional precisHonor Jones’s Sleep is a quiet devastation, a novel that moves like memory: fragmented, looping, occasionally opaque—but pulsing with emotional precision. It’s about Margaret, a woman trying to raise her daughters while carrying the wreckage of what was done to her in childhood—by her brother, and by her mother’s silence.
From the first pages, I felt myself resisting Margaret. She is prickly, distant, and sometimes even unlikeable—but that resistance faded the deeper I went, and the more I recognized the damage she’s working so hard to manage. “She often wondered: What was the point of her? She was ten years old.� The ache of that sentence stayed with me. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it wasn’t.
Honor Jones writes with the cool precision of someone who understands that pain doesn’t always speak in screams. Sometimes it’s in the missed calls, the slightly-too-loud laughter, the way a mother “held the moment, made it an occasion,� while her daughter only felt jealousy.
At its heart, Sleep is about how abuse shapes not just the survivor, but the entire emotional architecture of a family. Jones doesn’t sensationalize Margaret’s trauma—if anything, she underplays it, which only sharpens its impact. The summer her brother Neal started coming into her room, “only until she stirred and flinched and felt the blanket around her knees like shallow water”—that image is burned into me. The restrained horror of it, the matter-of-factness, the way she knows that “people hurt children—because they wouldn’t remember, because they wouldn’t tell, because people didn’t think they were quite alive.�
What hit hardest, though, was the silence. The complicity. The not looking. “Too late, Margaret understood what Elizabeth’s expression had meant. She had been asking for help, pleading with Margaret, just this once, for a really big favor. She’d been saying, ‘Please don’t make me look.’� That line broke something in me.
And then, decades later, when Margaret needs her own version of safety, she realizes: “She’d thought a husband would keep her safe. But he hadn’t agreed to that; he didn’t even know that was what she was asking for.� It’s that particular, gendered exhaustion that so many of us will recognize—not just what was taken, but how we have to perform wellness just to keep moving forward.
The writing is spare, elegant, and emotionally intelligent. There are no explosive confrontations, no grand revelations—just the slow, painful unwinding of a life shaped by omission. Even the structure of the novel mirrors memory—scenes drift in and out, time slips, and we’re left trying to stitch the present to the past with nothing but fragments and feeling.
There were moments I wanted more resolution, more catharsis. But maybe the power of this novel lies in that refusal. After all, “every new thing that happened to you changed you; you couldn’t take it back.�
Sleep won’t be for everyone. It’s quiet. It’s uncomfortable. It holds up a mirror to a kind of familial damage we still don’t really know how to talk about. But for those who have lived even a sliver of this—who’ve wrestled with the idea that “maybe I’m the one who made it all worse”—this book sees you.
And as Margaret finally begins to draw boundaries, to say, “Here I end; there you begin,� it feels like more than fiction. It feels like survival. ________________________________________ ...more
Some books don’t just tell a story; they carve out a space inside you, fill it with sorrow and love in equal measure, and leave you a little more brokSome books don’t just tell a story; they carve out a space inside you, fill it with sorrow and love in equal measure, and leave you a little more broken, a little more aware. Show Me Where It Hurts by Claire Gleeson is one of those books. It’s not just about tragedy—it’s about the fragile, gossamer-thin line between love and devastation, and how, when that line finally snaps, it feels impossible to trace back the moments that led to the breaking point.
I grew up with a severely mentally ill father, and reading this book was like peering into an alternate version of my own life, one where the fault lines cracked just a little differently. It’s a book that makes you wonder, how close have I come to that precipice? How many times have I nodded along, like Rachel, acknowledging others while feeling entirely absent from my own life? “She felt she spent her life nodding at people now. She had become something almost entirely passive.� And how many times have I questioned whether love can outlast the wreckage, whether there’s anything left to hold onto once the person you love has become someone else entirely?
Gleeson structures the novel with a dual timeline, letting us see Rachel’s life both before and after her husband, Tom, makes an unthinkable decision. The ‘before� is filled with aching tenderness, with a love so intoxicating it makes Rachel feel invincible. “They kiss in the long grass for what feels like hours, and when he pulls back finally his face is flushed and the look in his eyes makes her feel more powerful than she has ever felt before.� But even in these early pages, there’s an undercurrent of something inevitable, a quiet sense that the darkness is gathering at the edges.
And then there’s the ‘after’—a world where grief is not just an emotion but a physical weight, pressing down on Rachel, pinning her to the bed in the mornings. “Some mornings she woke with an inertia that was a blanket of dead air pinning her to the bed, a lumpen weight upon her chest.� It is in these moments that Gleeson’s writing is at its most devastating, stripping Rachel’s pain down to its rawest form. And yet, despite everything, Rachel’s feelings for Tom are not easy to categorize. “She cannot say any more that she loves him; nobody could ask that of her. But she finds that she does not hate him either. There is so little of him left to hate.�
What makes this novel so extraordinary is its refusal to fall into easy answers. It does not offer closure, because real life doesn’t. It does not paint Tom as a monster or Rachel as a saint. Instead, it explores the spaces in between—the moments of love that still exist in the ruins, the guilt that comes from feeling something other than misery, the quiet realization that the world will continue turning no matter how much you want it to stop. “Now she finds there is something almost comforting in the knowledge that the world was here, doing much the same things as always, long before she arrived on it, and will continue to turn on its axis aeons after she has gone.�
I have read many books about mental illness, love, and loss, but few have moved me the way this one has. It is astonishing, thought-provoking, and unbearably human. Claire Gleeson has written something deeply special. A story of love, in all its devastating, complicated, unshakeable forms. And it is one I will never forget.
Huge thanks to NetGalley & Hodder & Stoughton | Sceptre for the ARC. All opinions are my own. ...more
Wow. This is a serious gut-puncher, an experience that weighs heavy on your soul, grips your heart, and refuses to let go. Tananarive Due has crafted Wow. This is a serious gut-puncher, an experience that weighs heavy on your soul, grips your heart, and refuses to let go. Tananarive Due has crafted a harrowing tale set in the Jim Crow South that feels as much a ghost story as it does a reckoning with history. It’s heavy, heart-breaking, and necessary, and while I don’t often reach for paranormal narratives, this one used its supernatural elements with such purpose and power that it felt utterly essential.
The story centres on 12-year-old Robbie Stephens Jr., sentenced to the Gracetown School for Boys after defending his sister, Gloria, from an influential white boy’s advances. The "school" is a thinly veiled prison, a hellscape where abuse and cruelty are the norm. Robbie’s ability to see “haints� adds a chilling layer of supernatural horror, but it’s the human atrocities—the racism, the violence, the systemic dehumanisation—that are the real monsters here. Gloria’s fierce determination to save her brother anchors the narrative with hope, but the journey is as gruelling for the reader as it is for the characters.
At nearly 600 pages, this is a substantial read, but every word feels essential. Due masterfully balances dual perspectives—Robbie’s haunting experiences within the reformatory and Gloria’s relentless fight to free him. Both storylines are equally compelling, and the pacing is relentless. The narrative builds like a fire, each chapter stoking the flames until the intensity becomes almost unbearable.
This book broke my heart repeatedly. It’s unflinching in its portrayal of systemic abuse and the cyclical nature of oppression, yet Due’s writing never feels gratuitous. Instead, it’s purposeful, peeling back the layers of history to reveal the wounds we cannot afford to forget. It’s exhausting and emotional, but it’s also a testament to resilience, love, and the fight for justice.
The paranormal elements—the haints and hoodoo magic—work beautifully alongside the historical horrors, making this a unique and unforgettable blend of genres. It’s rare for a ghost story to feel so grounded, but The Reformatory achieves that balance, using its supernatural threads to amplify the weight of its themes rather than distract from them.
This isn’t an easy read, and it’s not meant to be. But it’s a masterpiece of horror, history, and humanity that left me shattered in the best way. Tananarive Due has delivered a story that will haunt me for a long, long time.
Shy Creatures by Clare Chambers is the kind of novel that feels like slipping into a beloved armchair: warm, familiar, and utterly absorbing. Yet beneShy Creatures by Clare Chambers is the kind of novel that feels like slipping into a beloved armchair: warm, familiar, and utterly absorbing. Yet beneath its comforting surface, this story deftly explores the shadows that linger in human lives, making it both life-affirming and quietly devastating.
Set against the evocative backdrop of 1960s Britain, the novel unravels the mystery of William Tapping, a man hidden from the world for decades, and Helen Hansford, the compassionate art therapist determined to piece his fractured life together. Chambers' ability to craft characters with such astonishing depth is unparalleled. Helen is flawed yet fiercely empathetic, William is both fragile and unknowably complex, and even Gil, the roguish psychiatrist, is given moments of humanity amid his moral failings.
The prose is quintessentially British—elegant, understated, and enriched with period details that transport you effortlessly to a world of post-war uncertainty and social change. Chambers� exploration of mental health, child abuse, and societal prejudice is unflinching but never heavy-handed. She lets these themes seep into the story naturally, inviting readers to confront them without feeling overwhelmed. And the twists! They come like soft ripples on the surface of a still pond, each one deepening the narrative's emotional resonance.
This novel is a warm cup of hot chocolate on a frosty evening, layered with the bitterness of reality but sweetened by hope and redemption. I absolutely loved it�5/5 without hesitation. Shy Creatures is proof that Clare Chambers is a master of her craft, and it left me with a full heart and the unshakable urge to recommend it to everyone I know. ...more
Barry Jonsberg's Smoke & Mirrors is an exploration of grief, family, and self-discovery wrapped in a story brimming with wit and emotional depth. GracBarry Jonsberg's Smoke & Mirrors is an exploration of grief, family, and self-discovery wrapped in a story brimming with wit and emotional depth. Grace, the protagonist, is an unapologetically sharp and guarded teen with a talent for magic and a deep bond with her equally acerbic Gran. Their dynamic sparkles with dark humour, even as it anchors the story through heavier themes like terminal illness, family trauma, and addiction.
Jonsberg's deft characterisation shines, making Grace's internal struggles feel poignant and authentic. Though not explicitly labeled, her neurodivergent traits are woven seamlessly into the narrative, offering meaningful representation without reducing her to a stereotype.
The magic in the story is more than a hobby for Grace—it's her lifeline, a way to process her emotions and connect with others, particularly through her burgeoning friendship with Simon. The clever twists, coupled with Jonsberg's subtle world-building, keep readers on their toes while delivering a heartfelt and hopeful conclusion.
This book balances raw emotional challenges with sharp humour, making it perfect for readers aged 12+ who appreciate a story that doesn’t shy away from difficult topics while offering moments of levity and wonder.
Elizabeth Fremantle’s Disobedient is a visceral, heart-wrenching dive into the life of Artemisia Gentileschi, a painter whose genius was forged in theElizabeth Fremantle’s Disobedient is a visceral, heart-wrenching dive into the life of Artemisia Gentileschi, a painter whose genius was forged in the crucible of unimaginable trauma and a relentless patriarchal society. It is a story of resilience, rage, and art as both a weapon and a refuge—a book that left me shaken, inspired, and utterly in awe of Artemisia’s defiance.
From the opening pages, Fremantle envelops you in 17th-century Rome with a sense of place so vivid, you can almost smell the pigment and hear the whispers of scandal echoing through cobbled streets. The novel unfolds during a pivotal moment in Artemisia’s life: her brutal assault by a trusted family friend and the ensuing trial that lays bare the horrifying injustices faced by women. Fremantle does not flinch from the violence or its aftermath, but she also doesn’t let it define Artemisia. Instead, she crafts a protagonist who channels her fury into her art, creating work that defies the expectations of her time and reverberates with raw, unfiltered truth.
The novel’s emotional impact is amplified by Fremantle’s stunning prose. Each sentence feels like a brushstroke on a masterful canvas—precise, evocative, and layered with meaning. The depiction of Artemisia’s painting Judith Slaying Holofernes is particularly powerful, revealing how her art becomes both a form of revenge and a reclamation of agency. Fremantle’s exploration of female rage is unapologetic, yet she tempers it with moments of tenderness, particularly in the relationships Artemisia forges with women who support her through her trials.
What elevates this novel beyond its historical setting is its contemporary resonance. The story speaks to ongoing struggles for women’s autonomy and justice, making it both timeless and urgent. Artemisia’s fight to live as a woman on her own terms—a woman who dares to paint the truth, no matter how ugly or violent—feels as relevant now as it did 400 years ago.
While the novel doesn’t shy away from its darker themes, it is ultimately a celebration of resilience and creativity. Fremantle’s author’s note is a treasure in itself, offering profound insights into her inspiration and connection to Artemisia’s story. It ties the narrative together with a deeply personal touch, making it clear that this is more than a novel—it is a tribute to every woman who has ever fought to be heard.
4.5/5 stars. A stunning, fierce portrait of a woman who dared to disobey....more
Some books start quietly, unassuming, and then evolve into something extraordinary—and How It Feels to Float by Helena Fox is exactly that. At first gSome books start quietly, unassuming, and then evolve into something extraordinary—and How It Feels to Float by Helena Fox is exactly that. At first glance, this feels like your typical coming-of-age story: teenage angst, a touch of romance, and navigating friendships. But as I kept turning the pages, I found myself on a raw, emotional journey I hadn’t anticipated.
The protagonist, Biz, is a beautifully complex character. Her struggles with grief, mental health, and identity are written with such authenticity that it’s impossible not to feel her pain. Helena Fox’s portrayal of a mental health spiral is both haunting and deeply compassionate, capturing the disorienting mix of numbness and chaos that accompanies a breakdown.
What makes this story shine is the relationships. The friendships Biz forms are a beacon of hope amidst the storm, reminding us of the profound impact of human connection. And the unearthing of family secrets—threads delicately woven into the narrative—adds depth and a touch of mystery, making this much more than just a story about mental health.
The writing itself is dreamlike, almost poetic, mirroring Biz’s fractured state of mind. At times, this style felt slightly overwhelming, but it’s undeniably powerful in immersing the reader into her world.
This book doesn’t shy away from the heavy topics—loss, trauma, mental illness—but it also offers glimmers of hope and resilience. It’s a poignant reminder that even in our most fragmented moments, we can find the strength to float.
“Because whatever he thinks I am, I'm not. And whatever he thinks my body is, it isn't. My Body is a torture chamber. It's a fucking crime scene.�
Amb “Because whatever he thinks I am, I'm not. And whatever he thinks my body is, it isn't. My Body is a torture chamber. It's a fucking crime scene.�
Amber Smith's The Way I Used to Be wrecked me in ways I wasn’t prepared for—it’s raw, haunting, and unrelentingly honest in portraying trauma's ripple effects. Eden’s slow unravelling, the self-destructive coping mechanisms she adopts, and the isolation that engulfs her after her assault paint an agonizingly real picture of survival in silence.
This book doesn’t hold back, and its emotional intensity will stay with me forever. Smith captures the unspoken realities of living with unresolved pain—the gnawing guilt, the festering anger, and the crushing self-perception that Eden carries like a second skin. Her spiral into destructive behaviour is heart-breaking yet maddening, because you so desperately want her to find her voice, to reach out, to let someone in.
Told over four years, Eden’s transformation from an innocent, nerdy freshman into a guarded, jaded young woman is both gradual and devastating. Smith’s ability to authentically age Eden’s voice and character through these transitions is extraordinary. The prose is sharp and unflinching, making Eden’s pain palpable in every line, while her fleeting moments of hope and connection are like lifelines you cling to as a reader.
The novel is character-driven, and though I struggled with Eden’s choices, it’s impossible not to empathize with her. She reflects the many survivors who navigate the world carrying invisible scars. By the end, I was deeply moved by her journey—not because it’s tidy or triumphant, but because it’s so real.
This isn’t an easy read, but it’s an important one. The Way I Used to Be is for anyone who’s ever felt unseen in their pain, and it’s a poignant reminder that healing doesn’t happen in isolation—it requires being heard, believed, and loved. What a book!
Jenny Valentine has a rare talent for weaving the threads of human emotion into words that resonate deeply. Us in the Before and After is no exceptionJenny Valentine has a rare talent for weaving the threads of human emotion into words that resonate deeply. Us in the Before and After is no exception. From the opening pages, it grips your heart with its raw, poetic exploration of friendship and loss, only to utterly break it by the final, devastating twist.
Elk and Mab’s story feels achingly real. Valentine’s characters breathe with life: Elk’s quiet resilience, Mab’s fiery loyalty, and the innocent, grounding presence of Knox. The beachside, almost ethereal, dremscape-like setting acts as a soft counterpoint to the emotional hurricane raging within these characters. Each moment—mundane or monumental—is so vividly rendered that you can almost feel the sand between your toes or hear the crash of distant waves.
And that twist? It left me spinning. I didn't see it coming, and yet, in hindsight, it made perfect sense—proof of Valentine’s skill in constructing a narrative as intricate as a spider’s web. Much like Valentine’s earlier works, the only complaint is that it ended too soon. I wanted to spend more time in this beautifully wrought, bittersweet world. If you’re looking for a quick, impactful read that will tear your heart out and stitch it back together with lyrical prose, this is it.
Highly recommended for fans of Adam Silvera or anyone who believes that the most profound truths lie in the quiet moments between words. Keep tissues nearby—you’ll need them.
I wanted to love Boudicca. Truly, I did. The promise of diving into the life of Britain’s iconic warrior queen had me ready to wield a metaphorical s I wanted to love Boudicca. Truly, I did. The promise of diving into the life of Britain’s iconic warrior queen had me ready to wield a metaphorical sword alongside her. And while the novel does a solid job of transporting you to ancient Britain, the execution left me somewhere between mildly entertained and repeatedly rolling my eyes.
Let’s start with the good stuff. The historical detail? On point. Cast clearly did her homework, and the book is brimming with fascinating insights into the customs, beliefs, and daily lives of the Iceni people. I genuinely appreciated the deep dive into their culture—it’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like you’re learning while you’re reading, which is always a win. The setting is lushly described too, though once the story shifts out of the village, the atmosphere feels a little... generic.
Now, for the less stellar bits. The writing? Let’s just say “basic� is a polite way of putting it. Cast’s prose gets bogged down in repetition so severe it could qualify as a drinking game. If I had a coin for every time someone said, “As you say, so will I do,� I’d have enough to fund my own Roman revolt. The dialogue feels stiff and unnatural, more like actors reading lines than people having actual conversations. And don’t even get me started on the overuse of “Iceni”—we get it, they’re Iceni. I don’t need a reminder every other sentence.
As for the characters, Boudicca herself is undeniably fierce, but she’s also frustratingly one-note. She starts as an amazing warrior and ends... still as an amazing warrior, but without much growth or nuance along the way. The romance? Blink and you’ll miss it—or worse, groan as you’re told repeatedly that she’s just so attracted to them. It’s shallow and predictable, offering about as much emotional depth as a kiddie pool.
The magical elements should have been a highlight, but Andraste’s “help� is so sporadic and unconvincing that it feels more like a plot convenience than actual world building. Oh, and when she basically shrugs and says, “Can’t help you, fate’s fate,� I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan.
That said, there were moments I genuinely enjoyed. The winter scenes, where everyone hunkers down and vibes in the snow, brought some much-needed cosiness and humanity to the story. The glimpses of Londinium and other historical settings were intriguing, and the core story of rebellion is inherently compelling—even if it’s buried under clunky execution.
Overall, Boudicca is fine if you’re looking for an easy historical read with a sprinkling of fantasy, but it never quite delivers on its epic promise. It’s like ordering a grand feast and getting lukewarm leftovers instead. Worth a try if you’re curious, but don’t expect it to revolutionise your bookshelf.
Rating: 2.5/5 � Give me historical queens, but give me more flair next time, please. ...more
�...I learned that we can't heal the story by changing the plot, pretending the awful stuff didn't happen. Tragedy just breaks out somewhere else alon�...I learned that we can't heal the story by changing the plot, pretending the awful stuff didn't happen. Tragedy just breaks out somewhere else along the line. The story won't heal until the players do.�
Reading A Council of Dolls felt like holding a precious, fragile relic � a heart-breaking yet fiercely resilient saga that stretches across generations of Indigenous women. Mona Susan Power deftly brings to life the haunting legacy of three Yanktonai Dakota women and their silent but ever-witnessing dolls, each bearing the weight of history in place of the elder councils they should have had. Set across a century, from the brutal grounds of Indian boarding schools to urban Chicago, Power’s narrative captures the destructive force of colonialism � systematically erasing culture, language, and identity.
The accounts of the boarding schools are especially heart-wrenching, a visceral reminder of how Indigenous children were stripped of not only their heritage but their sense of self. Cora’s beaded buckskin doll, Lillian’s Shirley Temple doll, and Sissy’s Ethel become far more than toys; they transform into guardians, confidants, and lifelines, bridging gaps between innocence and trauma. These dolls symbolise a tender resistance, embodying fragments of culture even as they silently witness generational scars and fleeting moments of joy. Power's stunning prose paints these interactions with an eerie grace, blending magical realism with harsh reality.
Personally, I found some descriptions, especially of mental health struggles within the family, to be profoundly moving yet challenging, touching on my own experiences. However, this is a testament to Power’s raw, evocative storytelling, which demands both acknowledgment and remembrance. A Council of Dolls is an act of preservation and a call to bear witness to a history that echoes painfully into the present. ...more
Trigger is a novel that confronts a rarely discussed and painfully real issue: male sexual assault. Told in verse, Moore’s storytelling is raw, honestTrigger is a novel that confronts a rarely discussed and painfully real issue: male sexual assault. Told in verse, Moore’s storytelling is raw, honest, and unflinching, drawing readers into the mind of Jay, a seventeen-year-old who wakes in a park with missing memories and the devastating realisation of assault. This powerful format magnifies every emotion, from Jay's initial confusion and fear to the jagged journey toward healing, immersing the reader in a narrative that refuses to shy away from the brutal reality of trauma.
The verse structure serves Moore’s story beautifully, allowing complex feelings to surface with visceral intensity. Each verse reads like a heartbeat—urgent, broken, but resilient. Jay’s path is filled with self-doubt, anger, and moments of quiet determination as he begins to find his voice. The friendships he builds, especially with Lau and Rain (a non-binary survivor with their own history of abuse), bring a compassionate dimension to his journey, providing crucial emotional anchors amidst his inner turmoil.
Despite the heavy subject matter, Trigger is, at its core, a story of hope and survival. Moore’s sensitive approach ensures that readers witness Jay's pain and resilience without being overwhelmed. By the final page, this novel underscores the importance of empathy, awareness, and healing, providing a much-needed space for male survivors of sexual assault within young adult literature. ...more
Wow, where do I even start? And Then She Fell left me both emotionally drained and utterly captivated. It is a dark, thought-provoking dive into motheWow, where do I even start? And Then She Fell left me both emotionally drained and utterly captivated. It is a dark, thought-provoking dive into motherhood, mental health, and the cultural weight of Indigenous identity, all wrapped in a mind-bending narrative that blends psychological horror and magical realism.
The story follows Alice, a young Mohawk woman who seems to have it all—a supportive white academic husband, a newborn daughter, and a new life in a posh Toronto neighbourhood. But beneath the surface, Alice is unravelling. Struggling with postpartum psychosis and grief after her own mother’s death, Alice feels disconnected from her baby, her heritage, and herself. Things take an eerie turn as she starts losing time and hearing unsettling voices, all while her husband and neighbours subtly (and not so subtly) question her sanity.
What really stands out about this book is how Elliott intertwines Alice’s spiralling mental health with larger themes of racism, colonialism, and cultural erasure. The fact that Alice’s husband specialises in her own Mohawk culture adds an extra layer of discomfort, as it feels like her identity is being dissected and consumed by the white academic world. This tension makes for an incredibly claustrophobic and paranoid read.
The twist at around 80% is what really makes this book unique. Without giving too much away, it turns the narrative on its head, and suddenly everything—from the title to the cover art—makes sense. It’s a risky genre shift, and while it might be too much for some, I personally loved it. One thing to note is that this isn’t a linear, straightforward read. Elliott’s storytelling, deeply rooted in Indigenous oral traditions, may feel disorienting at times, but it’s precisely this fragmented style that immerses you in Alice’s fractured reality. The non-linear timeline, coupled with the increasingly surreal events, makes you question what’s real and what’s imagined right alongside Alice.
What I loved:
✔️ Cultural depth: The incorporation of Mohawk myths and history adds so much richness to the story. Alice’s struggles are deeply tied to her heritage, and this connection elevates the narrative beyond a typical psychological thriller. ✔️ Complex exploration of motherhood: The depiction of postpartum psychosis is raw and unflinching. You feel Alice’s desperation, her guilt, and her fear as she questions whether she’s a good mother or even fit to be one. ✔️ The twist: It tied together so many elements of the story and left me with that “aha� moment that made the slow-burn buildup worth it.
What was just OK:
✔️ Pacing: The book’s first half, while intriguing, can feel a bit slow at times. It’s a slow-burn build-up that requires patience, especially if you’re not used to the non-linear structure. ✔️ Confusion with the twist: I’ll admit, I was confused when the twist first hit. It’s one of those moments where you either love it or hate it, and I could see some readers feeling lost or frustrated.
This book isn’t for everyone, but for those willing to embrace its unique structure and the unsettling blend of reality and myth, And Then She Fell is a haunting, powerful read. If you’re looking for a book that challenges you while offering a deeply emotional and psychological experience, this is a must-read.
Dear Medusa by Olivia A. Cole is an emotional powerhouse, delivering a visceral, gut-punching portrayal of trauma, survival, and reclamation of p4.5 �
Dear Medusa by Olivia A. Cole is an emotional powerhouse, delivering a visceral, gut-punching portrayal of trauma, survival, and reclamation of power. Told in verse, this novel fiercely captures the heartbreaking aftermath of sexual assault, as sixteen-year-old Alicia navigates a world that refuses to see her as a victim. The writing is incredibly powerful, each line dripping with raw emotion, as Cole crafts a story that feels as relevant as it is essential. Alicia’s journey is one of immense pain, but also fierce feminist defiance, reclaiming her voice and identity in a world determined to silence her.
The novel’s exploration of how society vilifies victims of assault, while sympathizing with perpetrators, is both important and timely. Alicia’s story echoes the Medusa myth, a fitting metaphor for a young woman unjustly labeled a monster. Cole’s prose is sharp, poignant, and heartbreaking, offering a portrayal of trauma that is both personal and universal. This book is a call for empathy, understanding, and, most importantly, change.
This is not an easy read, but it is an important one. With its fiercely feminist perspective, Dear Medusa reminds readers of the power of storytelling in reclaiming control over one's own narrative.
“Each of these letters end in tears, Fati. Years and years have gone by and I’m still stuck in my memories of you, stuck in this place between misery “Each of these letters end in tears, Fati. Years and years have gone by and I’m still stuck in my memories of you, stuck in this place between misery and sweet recollection.�
These Letters End in Tears by Musih Tedji Xaviere is a heartrending journey through the anguished yet hopeful correspondence of Bessem to her girlfriend Fatima. The epistolary format, which I found deeply compelling, offers a unique window into the intimate lives of the protagonists, allowing their emotions and struggles to unfold in a raw and powerful manner. This narrative choice imbues each letter with a profound sense of immediacy and personal connection, making the reader feel like an invisible confidant to their most private thoughts and fears.
The heartbreak woven through each page is palpable, as the letters reveal the stark realities and emotional turmoil faced by individuals navigating the complexities of LGBT experience in Cameroon. Author’s portrayal of these struggles is both poignant and eye-opening, shedding light on a reality that is often shrouded in silence. The depth of character building is remarkable and the language has moved me to tears.
What truly elevates These Letters End in Tears is the profound empathy with which Xaviere addresses these personal and societal challenges. The letters do more than just narrate events—they delve into the heart of the human experience, exploring themes of identity, love, and resilience amidst severe persecution. In this powerful and evocative work, Xaviere has crafted a narrative that is enlightening and deeply moving. I dare you not to cry when reading it! ...more
“Just because you think it’s safe here, it doesn’t mean this is the right place for you, her heart countered. Sometimes where you feel most safe is wh“Just because you think it’s safe here, it doesn’t mean this is the right place for you, her heart countered. Sometimes where you feel most safe is where you least belong.�
Another novel by this author that is absolutely sublime! �10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World� by Elif Shafak is an exquisite, heart-wrenching exploration of memory, friendship, and the indomitable spirit of a woman whose life defies the margins of society. Set in the vibrant and tumultuous city of Istanbul, the novel unfurls in the final moments of Tequila Leila’s life, capturing her memories in the precious seconds before her consciousness fades.
The strength of 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World lies in Shafak's signature writing style and rich, evocative prose. The narrative structure, which delves into Leila’s past through her fragmented, yet vivid memories, creates a deeply immersive experience. Shafak paints Istanbul with vibrant, sensory detail, from the bustling streets to the hidden corners, infusing the city with a life and character of its own. As Leila recalls the significant moments and people who shaped her, readers are drawn into a poignant tapestry of love, loss, and resilience.
In this deeply moving and thought-provoking novel, Elif Shafak balances moments of profound sorrow with glimmers of hope and humanity. Leila’s story, told with compassion and insight, illuminates the lives of those often overlooked by society. The novel’s exploration of themes such as identity, marginalization, and the enduring power of friendship resonates deeply, offering a rich and layered reading experience. The theme of found family gives the novel an uplifting and positive tone, despite all the trauma the characters go through. Elif Shafak is becoming one of my favourite writers. ...more
“Affection always feels this way for him, like an undue burden, like putting weight and expectation onto someone else. As if affection were a kind of “Affection always feels this way for him, like an undue burden, like putting weight and expectation onto someone else. As if affection were a kind of cruelty too.�
The story of Real Life by Brandon Taylor has stirred up some mixed and complicated feelings. The novel follows the life of Wallace, a black, gay, graduate student at a predominantly white Midwestern university. I was able to relate very deeply to Wallace's journey through the often challenging and isolating world of academia. The exploration of the intersections of race, sexuality, and mental health that Wallace experiences were profound and vivid, holding deep significance.
The language used is very poetic, and does a good job at addressing the subtle, to the overt racial and sexual discrimination that Wallace faces on a daily basis. Some of the more specific details about interactions Wallace has and intense descriptions from Taylor, were at times overwhelming, but also make the story richer. The unsatisfying ending, while not resolved, does reveal the persistent inactivity and ineffectiveness of Wallace, and left me dissatisfied. Real Life by Brandon Taylor is a good and strong read that really will make the reader consider mental health issues, trauma, and the difficulty of forming an identity in a hostile world. The aspect of trauma can be very exhausting, but it was a book that felt real and important. ...more
“Some people can't see softness without wanting to hurt it�
This novel will punch you in a gut and leave you breathless! The Death of Vivek Oji by Akw“Some people can't see softness without wanting to hurt it�
This novel will punch you in a gut and leave you breathless! The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi is a haunting and lyrical exploration of identity, family, and the secrets that define us. Set in Nigeria, the novel begins with the heart-wrenching image of a mother finding her son's lifeless body on her doorstep. From this moment, Emezi masterfully unravels the life of Vivek Oji, a young person navigating the complexities of gender and self in a society that struggles to understand them.
The strength of The Death of Vivek Oji lies not only in its evocative prose but also in its profound examination of love and acceptance. Emezi deftly weaves together multiple perspectives, creating a rich tapestry of voices that reveal the depth of Vivek's impact on those around him. The narrative oscillates between past and present, slowly unveiling the truths hidden beneath the surface. This poignant and powerful novel is a testament to Emezi's skill as a storyteller, leaving readers with a lasting impression of the beauty and pain inherent in the search for one's true self. ...more
‘When We Were Sisters� by Fatima Asghar is a poignant exploration of sisterhood, loss, and the complexities of growing up with multiple marginalized i‘When We Were Sisters� by Fatima Asghar is a poignant exploration of sisterhood, loss, and the complexities of growing up with multiple marginalized identities. Wow, what an evocative journey this is! The novel follows three Muslim American sisters who, after the death of their parents, are left to navigate a world filled with grief, neglect, and the struggle for identity.
Told through the perspective of the youngest sister, Asghar’s prose is infused with the lyrical quality of her poetry, creating a narrative that is both beautiful and heart-wrenching. The story's strength lies in its raw and unflinching portrayal of the sisters' experiences, from the oppressive environment under their uncle's care to the intimate moments of connection and love between them. The fragmented structure and poetic interludes reflect the emotional turmoil and fractured realities the sisters face, though this stylistic choice may distance some readers seeking a more grounded and cohesive narrative.
The novel’s exploration of forced maturity and the resilience required to care for oneself and others is both powerful and painful. Asghar masterfully conveys the emotional landscape of the sisters' lives, using spare yet potent language to highlight their confusion, fear, and longing. The cross-out and omitted names, along with the poetic chapters, serve to underscore the isolation and invisibility the characters feel, though this technique can sometimes make it challenging for readers to fully connect with the narrative.
Despite its beauty, the relentless sadness that permeates ‘When We Were Sisters� can be overwhelming. The story’s somber tone and the sisters' continuous struggles might make it difficult for readers to remain engaged, as the weight of their grief and hardship is ever-present. However, the moments of tenderness and the indestructible ties of sisterhood offer glimmers of hope and resilience.
‘When We Were Sisters� is a deeply moving debut that bravely tackles themes of loss, identity, and the enduring bond of family. While the fragmented and poetic style may not resonate with everyone, Asghar’s ability to capture the essence of heartbreak and resilience is undeniable. For readers willing to navigate its emotional depths, this novel offers a profound and thought-provoking experience....more
Louisa Reid's "Wrecked" delves deeply into themes of trauma, redemption, and human connection in a way that is powerful. The novel revolves around JoeLouisa Reid's "Wrecked" delves deeply into themes of trauma, redemption, and human connection in a way that is powerful. The novel revolves around Joe and Imogen, whose worlds collide when they struggle together in their relationship. Joe and Imogen’s road to recovery and self acceptance is a turbulent one, but it is the journey that they follow to arrive at a place of self acceptance.
Reid’s writing is imaginative, her text captures the essence of her characters with such vigor and sensibly, Joe’s efforts to recover his previous self and Imogen’s ceaseless obsession with pain and sorrow are written with frank directness such that their pain is tangible. The way that mental health issues are expressed in the book is really well done.
One critic of the novel would be the pacing; while the beginning is intriguing, the middle was relatively slow. There were several themes that were used repetitively and they could have been edited out. Further, while the characters were consistent and well developed, the description of Joe and Imogen actions were transient, making the story predictable.
Having read other verse novels by Louisa Reid, this is so far my least favourite unfortunately. ...more
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