Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
All in Audiobook
“My Friends” often feels like it’s trying very hard to be profound. Like it’s auditioning for an emotional response rather than earning it. There are moments, Backman always has a few, where a single line cuts through the noise and makes you stop. Unfortunately, these ideas are buried in a story that feels chaotic and bloated, trying to juggle too many themes without characters that can hold them together.
Stephen King still knows how to tell a pulse-pounding story, but if he wants to keep his cultural edge sharp, he needs to start asking harder questions about who gets to be the hero – and who keeps getting cast as the victim and the threat.
Hall isn’t writing heroes or villains, she’s writing about people who believe their own rationalizations – even as they unravel the lives of others.
Some novels feel like memoirs, not because they’re confessional, but because they pulse with lived-in truth. “Bad Habit,” Alana S. Portero’s autofictional debut, is one of those books.
“Tell Me How to Be” isn’t perfect. It’s sometimes overwrought, and Akash will test your sympathy, but it’s also culturally honest without pandering and willing to sit in discomfort. It shows real growth from Patel’s earlier work and enough promise to make me want to see what he does next.
“Bolla” isn’t a book you’ll want to live in for long. It offers no comfort, no catharsis, only the slow, painful truth that repression – personal or political – rarely leaves survivors.
If you asked me what this is about, I’m not sure I could tell you. It has several subplots, but no single throughline, and maybe that’s the point. This is a book about transient relationships – the people who find you when you’re at your lowest, who don’t fix you but show up anyway.
Even the weaker stories carry flashes of what makes Sittenfeld compelling: the sly observation, the perfect turn of phrase, the ability to make a character feel ridiculous and real in equal measure. This is objectively not a bad book, it’s just not Sittenfeld at her best.
A solid addition to Stephen King’s bibliography, though it may not stand alongside his most enduring works. The stakes in each story feel high, and while not every piece reaches the heights of his best work, the collection as a whole offers a compelling, if occasionally uneven, journey into King’s evolving narrative style.
I don't give five stars easily and almost never to a series book, or a YA novel, but “Sunrise on the Reaping” earns it. Propulsive, gutting and almost unbearably tense, it takes the familiar structure of the series and makes it feel more personal, more political and more devastating than ever.
To his credit, Baldacci doesn’t sanitize the war. He allows his characters to bristle at their government, at the Americans and at each other. The book isn’t burdened by a need for patriotic polish, and its refusal to lean into easy sentimentality is refreshing.
It’s a curious novel, blending fiction with recognizable realities, that made me care about a family I would have rather forgotten. So I’m surprised to say I’m glad I picked it up. Not because of the subject matter but because it proves Sittenfeld is one of the most fascinating writers working today.
While the romance at times veers into saccharine territory – declarations of love come frequently, and some gestures, like the grand finale at Wrigley Field, feel cinematic to a fault – it is counterbalanced with an exploration of what it means to forgive, even if forgetting is not an option.
At its core, the novel grapples with the fragility of truth – how it is twisted, feared and contested. Miller offers no easy solutions, but she does provide a playbook: meet people where they are, understand what drives them and push back – sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully.
“Somewhere Beyond the Sea” wants to be a beacon, but it ends up an echo of what made “The House in the Cerulean Sea” so beloved. It wants to offer the inclusive magic Rowling won’t, and for some readers, that alone may be enough. But intent doesn’t equal impact. The message may still shine through, but the journey is far less enchanting than before.
“Blue Sisters” is, in many ways, a Trojan horse of a novel – what seems like a light, fast read is actually a deeply serious and heartfelt story about grief’s enduring grip and the slow, often painful process of rebuilding in its wake.
This novella has solidified my disinterest in Burroughs and, perhaps, in the Beat Generation as a whole. As for the film adaptation, I’ll take a pass – I’ve given this story enough of my time.
Daniel Black’s “Isaac’s Song” is less a sequel to “Don’t Cry for Me” than a companion piece, giving Isaac’s long-awaited perspective on his relationship with his father, Jacob. While “Cry” was a reckoning told through a dying father’s letters, “Song” is a son’s introspective journey through memory, contradiction and generational trauma.
While not without its uneven moments, this is a testament to Jones’ ability to blend personal history with fiction, elevating the struggles of Black children into something literary, urgent and deeply human.
Robin R. Means Coleman and Mark H. Harris lean into their respective expertise – academic and journalist – to explore the evolution of Black representation in horror, organizing their insights around themes, tropes and industry trends that often mirror shifting racial attitudes in America.
