Unraveled Wednesday: 7/29/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a completed wolf on Justin's hat. 

It took me a couple of afternoons sitting outside in the shade to complete him. 

 

I've readjusted his eyes four times and I still can't get them to match, so further eye adjustment will have to wait until I have more patience.  The good news is that I only have one more animal to stitch. It's a badger and only uses four colors so that's a little extra good news.

 

We're in a prolonged period of humidity, severe storms, and hail but no tornadoes yet. It doesn't present any good opportunities for outdoor stitching for a while, so it's back to kitchen towel knitting. 

 

What are you making this final Wednesday in July?  

Read With Us: John of John

It's my turn to talk about our Summer 2026 Read With Us book, John of John by Douglas Stuart. We've read Stuart's other two novels, Shuggie Bain and Young Mungo, but I think this one is his best yet. 

There are many reasons to read Stuart's newest novel (stunning portraits of a father and son, an examination of how faith and identity can collide, it balances heartbreak with hope, along with many others) but one of the things that struck me the most was the ways in which color is used, especially in weaving which plays a large part. 

One of the most beautiful aspects of John of John is the way Douglas Stuart describes weaving not as a static craft, but as something almost alive. Rather than treating color as individual threads, he often emphasizes what happens when colors are brought together under tension. The cloth becomes a conversation between colors.

Several patterns emerge in his descriptions:

Color as interaction

Instead of naming a single color, Stuart frequently describes how one shade changes another.

The warp and weft create:

• colors that deepen when crossed

• shades that seem to emerge only from a distance

• patterns that shimmer as the cloth moves

• hues that appear different depending on the light

The emphasis is on the relationship between colors rather than isolated pigments.

Colors borrowed from nature

The weaving is often described using colors familiar from the Scottish landscape:

• heather purple

• peat brown

• lichen green

• sea-grey

• storm blue

• oat and barley gold

• cream wool

• weathered stone

Rather than sounding like a paint chart, the colors feel organic and rooted in place.

Mixing without blending

A hallmark of woven cloth is that colors remain distinct threads while creating a new visual effect together. Stuart captures this beautifully. Instead of saying colors are mixed, he suggests they:

• flicker

• pulse

• break against one another

• soften each other

• create a color that exists only when viewed as cloth

This reflects the optical blending that happens in tweed and tartan, where blue and yellow threads may read as green from a distance.

Cloth as light

He also pays close attention to how woven wool catches light.

Colors may appear:

• dull in shadow

• luminous in morning light

• silvered by rain

• warmed by afternoon sun

The fabric changes throughout the day, making color something dynamic rather than fixed.

The emotional resonance of color

Because weaving is deeply tied to the characters' work and identity, color choices often carry emotional significance. Certain combinations evoke memory, family, or a particular landscape. A bolt of cloth can feel like an attempt to capture a hillside, a season, or a place that matters.

Precision without technicality

Although Stuart clearly understands weaving, he rarely overwhelms the reader with technical dye or textile vocabulary. Instead, he writes in sensory terms. You don't need to know anything about weaving to appreciate descriptions that make you see and almost feel the cloth.

For example, rather than cataloging colors, he might evoke a fabric that appears:

• "stormy" rather than merely grey,

• "bracken-colored" rather than simply brown,

• "like winter sunlight on water" instead of just silver.

Why it works

Stuart's descriptions mirror the craft itself. Weaving is about many individual threads creating something richer than any one thread alone. Likewise, his color descriptions are cumulative. He layers small observations until the reader perceives a complex whole, much as the eye perceives the blended colors of a finely woven tweed.

It's a fitting metaphor for the novel itself: individual lives, memories, and histories crossing one another to create something stronger and more beautiful than their separate strands.

The hardcover and audiobook versions have a manageable hold queue at my libraries, so I hope that is also the case for you. After reading it with my eyes the first time, my re-read is the audiobook, narrated by Lorne Macfadyen in a wonderful (but still understandable) brogue.

Kym, Carole, and I will be talking about the book, giving additional information, and doing promotional posts throughout July and August. Discussion day for John of John is scheduled for Tuesday, September 15, 2026 at 7:00 pm Eastern time, so mark your calendars. We'll ask questions on our blogs that day and then host the always educational and illuminating Zoom discussion. I think this is my favorite Douglas Stuart novel so far, and one that is also very discussable, so I hope you'll Read With Us!

Bonus: Observer article about Douglas Stuart and Hebridean weavers. 

Read With Us Lounge: 7/27/26

In keeping with the RWU Lounge motto (No Rules, Just Fun), I've been thinking about book covers and how they can affect so much, like whether I take a closer look at the book, whether I choose to check it out, and my impressions of the story before I even begin. 

There's an old saying that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover. It's good advice for people. For books? I'm not so sure.

The truth is, I judge books by their covers all the time.

Not completely, of course. A beautiful cover won't make me love a bad book, and an ugly cover won't keep me from reading something that's been highly recommended. But covers absolutely influence what catches my eye in the library, what I linger over in a bookstore, and even what I click on when I'm browsing ebooks.

A cover is often my first conversation with a book.

Sometimes it's the colors. Sometimes it's the typography. Sometimes it's an illustration that makes me wonder, What's going on here? Other times it's the opposite; a cover feels so generic that I pass it by without giving it a second thought.

What's interesting is that covers don't just persuade us to pick up a book. They also quietly shape our expectations before we've read a single sentence.

A moody landscape tells me to expect something literary and introspective. Bright illustrated figures make me think the book might be funny or heartwarming. A house in the woods? Probably secrets. Flowers and birds? Maybe historical fiction. Bold block letters? Perhaps nonfiction or a thriller. Whether those assumptions turn out to be right is another matter entirely.

Sometimes a cover prepares me perfectly for what's inside. Other times it feels like it belongs to an entirely different book.

I've also noticed that once I've read a book, I often see the cover differently. An image that seemed ordinary suddenly feels full of meaning because I understand the references. Colors, objects, and little design choices take on significance that I completely missed the first time around.

And then there are those books that get redesigned. Occasionally I love the new edition, but sometimes I find myself strangely loyal to the cover I first encountered. It's as if that's the "real" book in my memory, even though the words inside haven't changed.

It's fascinating to think about how much work a cover has to do. In one image, it has to attract attention, hint at the mood, appeal to the intended audience, and somehow stand out among thousands of other books competing for our attention.

No pressure!

How much do book covers influence your reading?

• Have you ever picked up a book because of its cover?

• Have you ever avoided one because the cover didn't appeal to you?

• Is there a cover you absolutely love, even if the book itself wasn't a favorite?

• Have you ever been surprised by how different a book was from what its cover suggested?

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Maybe we aren't supposed to judge books by their covers, but I have a feeling every reader does, at least a little.

Bonus: A little extra story about the cover for John of John by Douglas Stuart. 

Books on Thursday: 7/23/26

I read three books last week, but two of them were Advance Readers' Copies that won't be published for at least a couple of months, so I'll wait a while to review them. But I did read one other book and it was excellent so I'd love to tell you about that one. 

I read Her Honor after hearing Judge LaDoris Hazzard Cordell interviewed on NPR. She was so thoughtful and engaging that I immediately wanted to learn more about her work and her perspective on the American legal system, and I'm glad I did.

Cordell has written an excellent memoir that reflects on her years on the bench through a wide variety of cases, from small claims and probate disputes to criminal trials, mental health hearings, and family law matters. I especially appreciated her compassion in discussing family law, including the care and sensitivity she brought to cases involving name changes. Throughout the book, she reminds readers that every file represents a real person whose life may be changed by what happens in a courtroom.

One of the book's greatest strengths is its balance. Cordell clearly believes in the justice system while acknowledging its flaws. She traces ways the courts have become fairer over time, but she also doesn't shy away from broken processes that continue to produce unjust outcomes. Rather than simply criticizing, she thoughtfully proposes practical reforms.

I found her discussion of drunk driving particularly compelling. She explains her efforts to require convicted offenders to install ignition interlock devices, despite significant opposition from those who felt she was overstepping. Her account illustrates both the limits of judicial power and the determination of a judge trying to prevent future tragedies.

Cordell also writes candidly about race and the ways white privilege and unconscious assumptions can influence the pursuit of justice. She approaches these topics without bitterness or accusation, instead offering clear explanations of how lived experiences, and the lack of awareness of others' experiences can affect courtroom outcomes.

This was an interesting, educational, and very well-written book, so I rounded my 4.5 stars up to 5. Whether you're fascinated by the legal system or simply enjoy thoughtful memoirs from people who have spent their careers in public service, Her Honor is well worth reading. 

Now I'd love to know what you're reading! 

Unraveled Wednesday: 7/22/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with something you haven't seen for a while. This is what the hat looked like six weeks ago, with the barn owl completed, but just a few stitches started on the wolf to the right:

We had a really nice day (seasonal temps, low humidity, very little smoke) on Monday so I took advantage of it and worked on Justin's hat outdoors in the shade. It's lovely and calming, sitting outside, stitching slowly, and listening to the birds. It rained yesterday and today, but I might be able to stitch outdoors again tomorrow. This is what it looks like now:

A little more wolf-like but still quite a bit more to go. I had forgotten just how slow and tedious this is!

I did cast on with the teal yarn for a third kitchen towel as soon as I finished the green one, but there is still a long way to go on it, too. After three towels in the same pattern, I think I'm definitely ready for a different pattern. But there is still the potential for plenty of hot weather this summer, so I think I'll be knitting with cotton yarn for at least another month.  

What are you making this penultimate Wednesday in July? 

Read With Us Lounge: 7/20/26

The other night I watched Hamnet on Netflix, which sent me back to thinking about Maggie O'Farrell's novel; it is one of my favorite books of the past few years. While Hamnet isn't exactly a retelling of Hamlet, it feels connected to it in fascinating ways. Rather than reimagining Shakespeare's play, it imagines the grief that may have inspired it, making Shakespeare himself seem less like an untouchable literary giant and more like a husband, a father, and a person trying to make sense of loss.

It made me wonder why we're so drawn to retellings, or perhaps more accurately, to books that revisit familiar stories from a new angle. Why do we keep retelling stories?

Retellings have become almost a genre of their own. We see Greek myths told from the perspective of overlooked women (Circe and A Thousand Ships), fairy tales with unexpected heroes (Spindle's End), Jane Austen novels transplanted into modern settings (Bridget Jones's Diary), and Shakespeare plays viewed through entirely different eyes. David Copperfield has been relocated from Victorian England to Appalachia and is now a character talking about the opioid epidemic. I thought Lady Tremaine was an exceptionally well-crafted reimagining that doesn’t simply flip the script on Cinderella’s “wicked stepmother,” but interrogates how such a woman might have come to be called wicked in the first place. Many of these begin with the same impulse: What if we looked at this story differently? What if we gave another character the microphone? What happened before, or after, the version everyone knows?

Perhaps familiar stories give us a place to stand while we explore something new. We already know where the road goes, so we can pay closer attention to the scenery along the way. Or maybe every generation simply wants to ask its own questions of the stories it inherits.

Some retellings stay very close to their source material, while others barely resemble the original by the time they're finished. At what point does a retelling become an entirely new work? Is it enough to borrow a few characters or themes, or does the original need to remain recognizable? Does it matter whether you've read the source material at all?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

• What retelling changed the way you saw the original story? Think about myths, fairy tales, Shakespeare, classics, or even fanfiction-inspired retellings.

• Why do you think we're so drawn to revisiting old stories through modern lenses?

• When does a retelling become its own story? How much of the original needs to remain recognizable?

• Have you ever read a retelling before reading the original? Did it change your experience?

• Are there stories you think deserve more retellings, or stories that should simply be left alone?

Be sure and visit Kym and Carole to see what they're talking about today.   

Books on Thursday

I finished three books this week, but none of them were terrific. That's okay; I'm reading One Man's Meat, a collection of E.B. White's essays and that more than makes up for a less-than-stellar week in reading. 

This reread was a surprise, but not in the way I'd hoped.

I clearly remember reading The Tale of Despereaux with my children, and I remember all of us enjoying it. In my memory, it was a quirky, heartfelt story about bravery, forgiveness, and a mouse who refused to accept the limits placed on him.

Reading it again more than two decades later, I found myself reacting to an entirely different book.

What stood out this time was the darkness. The rats felt relentlessly evil, Miggery Sow's heartbreaking mistreatment (beginning with the cruel nickname that becomes her identity) was far more upsetting than I remembered, and many of the other characters behaved in ways that struck me as unnecessarily harsh or simply strange. I know fairy tales have always contained cruelty, but this time those elements overwhelmed the gentleness and hope I remembered from my first reading.

Perhaps my memory has softened the story over the years. Or maybe I've simply changed as a reader. I'm glad I revisited this once-beloved childhood favorite, if only to discover how much both books and readers can change over time. Unfortunately, this wasn't the story I remembered, and it didn't recapture the magic I'd hoped to find. Two stars. 

I picked up Good Morning, Monster hoping for something thoughtful and illuminating, along the lines of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone. Instead, I found myself increasingly uncomfortable with both the stories and the way they were presented.

There's no denying that the five patients described here survived extraordinary trauma, and their resilience is remarkable. But rather than deepening my understanding of trauma or the therapeutic process, the book often felt as though it was elevating suffering into something almost heroic. I couldn't shake the feeling that the patients' experiences were being shaped into inspirational narratives at the expense of the patients themselves and the nuances of therapy.

Even more troubling were some of Gildiner's own comments and interactions with her patients. Several things she said to them and about them struck me as surprisingly insensitive or self-congratulatory. Maybe she intended these moments to demonstrate honesty or breakthrough therapeutic techniques, but they often landed as dismissive or simply unkind.

I also found myself questioning the overall tone. The book asks us to admire both the patients and the therapist, yet I never felt convinced by the latter. Instead of coming away with a greater appreciation for psychotherapy, I was left with an uneasy sense that I had read something more interested in dramatic storytelling than in thoughtfully exploring the therapeutic relationship.

The patients' stories are undeniably compelling, but my lasting impression wasn't one of inspiration. It was just (for lack of a better word) icky. Another pitiful two star book. 

Murder at the Grand Alpine Hotel is an enjoyable mystery that should appeal to Agatha Christie fans. The snowbound setting of an elegant Swiss hotel, a cast of wealthy guests with secrets to hide, and an isolated location cut off by a blizzard all create a mysterious atmosphere.

Unfortunately, I never felt this mystery reached the level of cleverness needed to stand alongside the grande dame herself. I kept waiting for the intricate plotting and satisfying misdirection that make Christie's novels so memorable, but this story never quite delivered.

The pacing felt off to me. I spent the first half of the book anticipating the central murder, only to realize it doesn't actually occur until around the 40% mark. From there, the novel shifts into a sprint toward the conclusion. Rather than building tension, the rushed second half diminished the suspense that I usually associate with good mysteries.

My biggest disappointment, however, was Miss Marple herself. I was surprised that we never get much of Miss Marple at all, not even her sitting there placidly knitting. While she's certainly present, she remains on the periphery for much of the story, and I missed seeing her quietly observing, connecting seemingly insignificant details, and allowing readers to appreciate her remarkable deductive mind. As a result, the final reveal lacked the satisfying "aha!" moment I was expecting.

Overall, this is a perfectly entertaining three star mystery with a wonderfully atmospheric setting, but it left me feeling more underwhelmed than impressed. It's a pleasant homage to Christie, but not one I'll personally remember alongside the classics.

Thank you to NetGalley and William Morrow for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 22, 2026. 

Now I'd love to know what you're reading!