Books on Thursday

I've read a few interesting books and would like to tell you about them today.

 

I’ve been trying to expand my reading this summer, and part of that has meant seeking out memoirs by people whose lives are very different from mine. Sober Mom fits that description. Liz Jannuzzi’s account of her alcoholism, its devastating effects on her marriage and family, and her eventual recovery through AA is a candid and often remarkable story.

What struck me most was the amount of energy and planning that went into maintaining the illusion that everything was fine. Jannuzzi was raising three young children while drinking vodka for much of the day, all while hiding bottles, concealing how much she drank, hiding the money she spent on alcohol, and trying to keep her husband from discovering the extent of the problem. Her description of reaching the point where she could no longer keep the pieces of her life separated is painful but compelling.

I also appreciated that Jannuzzi doesn’t present recovery as a neat, inspirational transformation. There are cravings, uncomfortable amends, grief, marital difficulties, and plenty of awkward moments. Her willingness to describe the less glamorous parts of AA and sobriety makes the story feel honest rather than overly polished. There is also a welcome vein of humor amid some very difficult material.

One caveat for those of us who enjoy a drink: Jannuzzi occasionally describes vodka and cranberry juice with such lush, sensory detail that I found myself thinking, "Well, that sounds pretty good!" It's an acknowledgement of her writing ability, and an interesting reminder of just how seductive alcohol can be, even when you’re reading about the destruction it caused.

This isn’t a memoir I would describe as an easy or comfortable read, but it is a compelling one. Jannuzzi tells her story with considerable honesty and gives a vivid picture of what alcoholism can look like when it is hidden behind the façade of an ordinary suburban family life. Most importantly, Sober Mom offers a convincing portrait of recovery as something built one day at a time, with help from other people and a willingness to confront the damage left behind. This was four stars for me.  

 

Any Bitter Thing is a quietly moving novel about memory, forgiveness, family, and the ways that the truth can become complicated when viewed through the imperfect lens of time.

After a near-fatal accident leaves Lizzy Mitchell struggling to recover, she becomes preoccupied with the vision she had while unconscious: her beloved Uncle Mike, the Catholic priest who raised her until she was nine. Twenty years earlier, accusations of impropriety had destroyed Mike’s career and separated him from Lizzy, sending her away to boarding school. Now, as Lizzy tries to piece together what happened to her in the accident, she also finds herself compelled to revisit the events that changed both their lives.

I particularly liked the way Monica Wood explores the uncertainty surrounding memory. Lizzy isn't simply trying to uncover an objective version of the past; she has to confront how children understand adult behavior, how families protect themselves, and how easily suspicion can become accepted as fact. The question of what really happened to Father Mike provides the mystery at the heart of the novel, but the emotional consequences are ultimately more important than solving it.

Lizzy's recovery, her troubled marriage, and her complicated feelings about Mike give the story plenty of emotional depth. At times the novel felt a little overly sentimental to me, and some of the spiritual elements didn't completely work for me. Still, Wood writes with considerable compassion, and I appreciated that she allows her characters to be flawed without making them easy to judge. 

This is ultimately a story about the damage caused by secrets and accusations, but also about the possibility of reconciliation and hope. Any Bitter Thing isn't a fast-paced mystery so much as an intimate exploration of how we remember the people we love, and how understanding the past can sometimes help us find a way forward. Thanks for the four-star recommendation, Becky! 

 

I thought that Homeschooled sounded like it might be interesting, but I found myself wishing the author had chosen a different title and framed the book quite differently. This is not a book about homeschooling so much as a memoir about an unhealthy mother-son relationship marked by codependency, isolation, emotional manipulation, mental health issues, and familial dysfunction.

Stefan’s mother removes him from school because she believes his teachers are stifling his creativity, but what follows is far removed from what most people would consider education. His world becomes increasingly restricted, while his mother involves him in increasingly bizarre projects and attempts to control his behavior and development. The emotional manipulation and isolation are particularly disturbing because they are presented under the guise of homeschooling.

One episode that stayed with me was his mother’s insistence that he crawl around the house like a baby, supposedly as a way to improve his penmanship. I kept wondering what his father thought about having a middle-school-aged son crawling around the house because his mother believed this was somehow beneficial. The author repeatedly mentions that his father was very busy, but I found myself wishing there had been more exploration of his role in what was happening. I would also like to have read some of the older brother's thoughts.

There is no question that this is a sad and, ultimately, empowering story. Stefan’s return to public school after five years of isolation and his gradual discovery of a life outside his mother’s control are compelling. His journey toward independence is the strongest part of the book, but it still felt like Block excused or even romanticized much of his mother's highly aberrant behavior.

For me, the homeschooling aspect felt almost incidental to the larger story. The real subject is a mother whose controlling behavior and increasingly eccentric worldview profoundly affected her son. I think I would have connected with the book more if it had been presented as a memoir about mental health, family dysfunction, and a young person struggling to establish his own identity rather than as a book purportedly about homeschooling.

There are some powerful and heartbreaking moments here, but ultimately I found the framing of the story frustrating, and I still have many unanswered questions about what this family went through. 1.5 stars rounded up.

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

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/26/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today, but I'm also unhappy that I don't yet have a finished towel to show you. 

The last time I was at Ryan's, I measured one of his ratty dishtowels that I hope to replace with these handknitted ones. I didn't have a tape measure so I quickly made a "measuring string" for length from one of the skeins in my knitting bag while Ryan was otherwise occupied. You can see I'm approximately two repeats short of completing the length, but I think I'll do an extra one because I fully expect it to shrink when I wash and dry the towel.

 

 

Hopefully, I'll have this one completed and be well into finishing the purple one by the next time I join Unraveled Wednesday. We're leaving next Monday to visit John's older sister and her husband for much of the week. With an eight-hour round-trip drive, I'm envisioning finishing both towels and maybe starting another one in Dishie yarn using this pattern. We'll see; my knitting visions don't always turn into reality. 

 

What are you making this last Wednesday in August? 

Ravelry links:

Nested Squares Kitchen Towel 

 

Read With Us Lounge: 8/24/26

Hello and welcome to my penultimate Read With Us Lounge post. One of the things I’ve been trying to do as part of the Read With Us Lounge this summer is expand my reading. Not read more books, but read differently, especially books by people whose lives and experiences are very different from my own.

That raises an interesting question: Do books have to be “relatable” for us to enjoy or appreciate them? We hear that word all the time when people talk about books. I really related to this character. It was so relatable! Sometimes that connection is exactly what makes a book meaningful. It can be comforting to recognize ourselves in another person’s experiences, thoughts, fears, or mistakes. But I wonder if we sometimes ask too much of books when we expect them to reflect our own lives.

One of the books that first made me think about this was Wild Game by Adrienne Brodeur, which the Read With Us group read back in 2020. Brodeur’s memoir describes a complicated relationship with her mother and the enormous secret she was drawn into as a teenager. Her family dynamics, choices, and experiences were very far removed from my own life. And yet I found the book fascinating. I wasn't fascinated because I recognized myself in Brodeur. I was captivated because she gave me a window into a life I had never experienced, and into the complicated ways people can love one another, hurt one another, and become entangled in one another’s choices.

This summer, I’ve read several other memoirs that have taken me well outside my own experience. Sober Mom by Elizabeth Jannuzzi introduced me to the experience of a suburban mother struggling with alcohol addiction. Homeschooled by Stefan Merrill Block gave me a glimpse into a childhood and family structure very different from anything I knew. And Little Princesses by Marion Crawford offered a fascinating look at life inside the British royal family through the woman who served as governess to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.

I am not a homeschooled royal alcoholic. The only thing I really have in common with these authors is that I am a fellow human being. And maybe that is enough.

Reading about people whose lives are completely different from ours can be a reminder that we don't need to have the same experiences in order to recognize something of ourselves in another person. We can recognize fear without having experienced the same thing that frightened someone else. We can understand loneliness without having lived the same kind of loneliness. We can recognize love, shame, jealousy, grief, ambition, regret, or hope even when the circumstances surrounding those emotions are completely unfamiliar. That may be one of the great gifts of reading.

A book doesn't always have to say, “This is just like my life.” Sometimes it can say, “This is nothing like my life, but now I understand a little more about someone else's.” And that seems especially valuable right now. It is very easy to make assumptions about people whose lives look different from ours. We can reduce someone to a label, an experience, a mistake, or a set of circumstances we don't understand. But spending several hours inside someone else's story can make that person more complicated, more human, and harder to dismiss.

Does reading automatically make us more empathetic? Probably not. But I think it can give empathy somewhere to begin. I will never understand exactly what it is like to be an alcoholic (hopefully), to be homeschooled, or to grow up in the royal household. But after reading these books, I have a little more understanding of people who have lived those lives. And perhaps the next time I encounter someone whose experiences are completely different from mine, I'll be a little less quick to judge.

What about you? Tell me about a book that expanded your empathy precisely because it felt unfamiliar. What did you learn from entering a life that was very different from your own? Did reading about that experience change the way you thought about the people who live it? And, just as importantly: Do you think a book needs to be “relatable” for you to love it?

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Thank you for your participation in the RWU Lounge. We we weren't exactly sure if our "anti-book bingo" idea would work but you have helped to make it a rousing success with your thoughtful comments and discussion, no matter what the topic was. As a small token of our appreciation, we'd love to send you a thank-you gift. If you're comfortable sharing your mailing address, please send it to me via email (highlyreasonableATgmailDOTcom) and we'll get your parting gift on its way in a bit. Thanks again; we really appreciate your commitment to our "No Rules. Just Fun!" philosophy. 

Books on Thursday

I have three ARC reviews for you this week. I've been trying to blog about them closer to their publication dates so you can place a hold at your library if you are interested. That seems far better than telling you about them three to six months before they are even published!

I went into Sophie, Standing There by Meg Mason expecting something sharp, funny, and emotionally insightful, and to be fair, it does deliver on some of that. Sophie is an immediately sympathetic character: gentle, withdrawn, and quietly struggling in ways that feel recognizable and real. Mason has a gift for capturing the interior life of loneliness, and there are moments of genuine wit and poignancy scattered throughout.

One of my favorite aspects of the novel was its deep immersion in the literary world. I loved all the references to books, publishing, and especially to authors themselves. They loom large in Sophie’s life, not just as creators but as emotional anchors. The portrayal of a reader’s relationship to a beloved writer felt incredibly authentic, capturing that peculiar blend of admiration, intimacy, and dependence that can form across the page. Those elements added a richness and specificity that really elevated the reading experience for me.

That said, I found myself increasingly frustrated with the pacing. I enjoyed the story, but it felt like it took forever to get anywhere. Much of the novel lingers in Sophie’s inner world without enough forward momentum, and while that may be intentional, mirroring her stagnation, it sometimes makes the reading experience feel stuck rather than immersive. I kept waiting for a shift, a spark, or a deeper development that would push things forward in a meaningful way.

The premise, especially Sophie’s attachment to the author who becomes a kind of emotional lifeline, is compelling and full of potential. When the book focuses on that idea, it’s at its strongest, exploring the strange intimacy between reader and writer in a thoughtful, almost tender way. But those moments are somewhat buried beneath repetition and a narrative that circles more than it progresses.

Overall, this is a thoughtful and occasionally moving novel with a strong central character, and a love letter of sorts to the literary world, but one that might have benefited from a tighter structure and a bit more narrative drive. I’m glad I read it, but I can’t help feeling it didn’t quite live up to what it could have been. (But Meg Mason is the author and I am clearly not!) Three stars.

Thank you to Edelweiss and Harper for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 8, 2026.

I was immediately captivated when a friend mentioned that she was reading Swimming With Turtles and I ended up enjoying this memoir even more than I expected. Susan Baur has a gift for translating the quiet act of snorkeling in Cape Cod ponds into something genuinely adventurous. Her descriptions of the underwater world are so vivid that it often feels as though you're swimming alongside her, peering beneath lily pads and scanning the shadows for painted, musk, and snapping turtles. She captures both the beauty and the thrill of discovery in a way that made me appreciate an ecosystem I'd never given much thought to.

The memoir is also about grief, aging, patience, and learning to pay closer attention to the natural world. Baur's love story and the loss that follows add emotional depth without overwhelming the central joy of her observations. I especially appreciated how her fascination with turtles evolved into environmental stewardship, reminding us that wonder often leads to caring.

I have to admit that I'm still slightly terrified of muddy pond bottoms and snapping turtles, too, but this book somehow made me want to grab a snorkel and see what I've been missing beneath the surface. That's a testament to Baur's enthusiasm and powers of observation. 

If I have one small criticism, it's that the reflective passages occasionally linger a bit longer than I wanted, slightly slowing the momentum. Even so, Swimming with Turtles is a thoughtful, immersive memoir that celebrates curiosity, resilience, and the rewards of slowing down long enough to truly see the world around us. A wonderful read for nature lovers and anyone who enjoys memoirs that quietly inspire. Four and a half stars rounded up.   

Thank you to NetGalley and University of Massachusetts Press for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 8, 2026.

 

Switzy is one of those novels that is less concerned with plot than with immersing the reader in a state of mind. Emma Cline's stream-of-consciousness style places us inside David's increasingly fractured thoughts as he travels across Europe, knowing that he has chosen to end his life before dementia erases what remains of his sense of self.

What impressed me most was Cline's ability to make David's experience feel immediate rather than merely observed. Instead of describing dementia from the perspective of family members or caregivers, she invites us into David's shifting consciousness. Memories surface without warning, conversations lose their shape, familiar places become strange, and time itself refuses to behave. It's disorienting, but intentionally so, creating a reading experience that gives what I imagine to be a shockingly realistic sense of dementia.

Despite the heavy subject matter, there are flashes of dry humor and moments of surprising tenderness. As David reflects on childhood, family, career, regrets, and small moments that linger long after larger accomplishments have faded, the novel quietly asks what remains of a person when memory begins to disappear. This question stayed with me even after I finished the book and I will be thinking about this one for a while.

This wasn't an easy or particularly fast read for me. The stream-of-consciousness narrative can be repetitive, occasionally confusing, and difficult to follow. I often found myself going back several pages to try and make sense of what was happening. But the style ultimately serves the story very well, drawing the reader into the confusion, fear, and fleeting moments of clarity that define David's final journey.

Switzy is an enveloping, compassionate novel that offers what a deeply imagined glimpse of dementia might feel like from the inside. It's haunting, thought-provoking, and unlike anything else I've read on the subject.

Thank you to NetGalley and Random House for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 8, 2026.There is a Goodreads giveaway for this four-star book if you are interested. 

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

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/19/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today. I'm still working on the same dish towels, adding more rows slowly but surely. 

After knitting 10 rows on these, I’m finally getting the hang of keeping my knits and purls straight, most of the time, anyway. I still have quite a way to go, so there’s plenty of time to become a real seed-stitch expert (and also plenty of time to make more mistakes).

 

I think these will be for Ryan. I'm guessing that it will take me at least a couple of weeks to finish them, and then I'll need to get back to stitching the badger on Justin's hat. I'm glad I started these Christmas gifts early (and I still need to think of something to make for Jess). 

What are you making as August winds down? 

Ravelry links:

Nested Squares Kitchen Towel 

 

Read With Us Lounge: 8/17/26

  

For the Read With Us Lounge, we spend a lot of time talking about books we love. But every now and then, an interesting question comes up: What actually makes a book good?

It sounds like a simple question, but the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to answer. Is a good book beautifully written? Does it need to move us emotionally? Should it surprise us with something we've never encountered before? Is a book better if we want to read it again or if it challenges us the first time through? Maybe the most interesting answer is that a “good” book doesn't have to succeed in just one way

Beauty of Language

Some books stay with us because of the sentences themselves. We pause over a phrase, reread a paragraph, or find ourselves thinking about a particular image days later.

Beautiful language can make an ordinary moment feel extraordinary. It can create atmosphere, reveal character, or make us notice something about the world that we hadn't noticed before. Sometimes, we love a book simply because we love being inside its prose.

But does beautiful writing automatically make a book good? Probably not. A gorgeous sentence can't necessarily rescue a story that leaves us cold.

Emotional Impact

Then there are the books that make us feel.

We may laugh, cry, become angry, feel unsettled, or recognize ourselves in a character. Sometimes a book changes our understanding of an experience we have never personally had.

Emotional impact can be powerful, but it is also deeply personal. One reader may be devastated by a novel while another barely reacts. Does that mean one reader is “right” or is the emotional experience itself part of what makes reading so subjective?

Originality

We often praise books for being original. We want ideas, characters, structures, or perspectives that feel fresh.

But originality is complicated. Very few stories are completely new. Writers are always borrowing, adapting, responding to, and reinventing what came before. Sometimes the most impressive books aren't the ones with entirely new ideas, but the ones that take familiar ideas and make us see them differently.

Perhaps originality isn't about inventing something from nothing. Perhaps it's about making something familiar feel new.

Rereadability

Here's another test: Would you read it again?

Some books are thrilling on a first read but don't necessarily call us back. Others seem to become richer each time we return to them. On a second or third reading, we notice foreshadowing, hidden details, patterns in the language, or meanings we couldn't have seen before.

But rereadability isn't the only measure of quality. Some books are difficult, painful, or exhausting, and we may be grateful we read them once without ever wanting to read them again. A book doesn't necessarily have to be comforting or enjoyable to be worthwhile.

Difficulty

Which brings us to another tricky question: Does a good book have to be difficult?

There's a temptation to equate difficulty with seriousness or intelligence. We sometimes assume that if a book takes effort to understand, it must be more valuable than one we read quickly and easily.

But reading pleasure matters, too. A book can be deceptively simple and still be profound. A straightforward story can contain enormous emotional or philosophical depth. Maybe difficulty is best understood not as a measure of quality, but as one possible kind of reading experience.

So What Makes a Book Good?

Maybe the answer depends on what we ask a book to do.

A good book might give us language we want to savor. It might make us feel something deeply. It might challenge our assumptions, introduce us to an unfamiliar perspective, or make an old idea feel new. It might reward rereading, or simply give us an unforgettable experience the first time.

And perhaps the most important thing is that “good” doesn't have to mean “universally enjoyable.”

A book can be beautifully written and not be for us. A novel can have brilliant ideas but fail to move us. A book we adore might be one that another reader finds tedious. Those differences aren't necessarily a problem. They're part of what makes a reading community interesting.

So this summer, instead of asking only Did you like it?, we can try asking a few different questions:

What did this book do well?

What did it make you feel or think about?

What, if anything, will stay with you?

Would you read it again? Why or why not?

And perhaps the best question of all:

What makes you call a book “good”?

I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Bring your favorite book, your most controversial opinion, or the book you can't stop thinking about, and let's compare our definitions of “good.”

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Thank you for your participation in the RWU Lounge. We we weren't exactly sure if our "anti-book bingo" idea would work but you have helped to make it a rousing success with your thoughtful comments and discussion, no matter what the topic was. As a small token of our appreciation, we'd love to send you a thank-you gift. If you're comfortable sharing your mailing address, please send it to me via email (highlyreasonableATgmailDOTcom) and we'll get your parting gift on its way in a bit. Thanks again; we really appreciate your commitment to our "No Rules. Just Fun!" philosophy.

Books on Thursday

I read several books this week. It was a good week for reading, given our 90 degrees plus weather combined with oppressive humidity. 

I really liked the premise of The Treasure House. A single mother and her young daughter buying a neglected house overflowing with decades of accumulated belongings has all the ingredients for a cozy, emotionally satisfying story. Watching someone slowly reclaim both a home and a life can make for a compelling read.

For me, though, the execution made it clear that I'm probably not the target audience. This is a perfectly pleasant romance, but many of the obstacles are resolved so easily that the story never felt especially grounded. Zoe sees the house, makes one phone call to the owner, another to the bank, and suddenly she's a homeowner. The many challenges of rehabilitating a rundown house are similarly smoothed over with the help of an endlessly supportive circle of friends and neighbors. Even major jobs, like putting up storm windows during a coastal storm, seem to come together with surprising ease.

The romance was equally predictable. As soon as the somewhat taciturn owner of Jake's Hardware and Lobster Shack appeared, it was obvious where that storyline was headed. Predictability isn't necessarily a flaw. Sometimes it's exactly what you're looking for in a comfort read, but there weren't many surprises along the way.

I did enjoy the small mystery surrounding the previous owner, Marly, and the parallels between her life and Zoe's added some emotional depth. Florence was also a charming presence, bringing warmth and optimism to the story.

Overall, The Treasure House is an easy, feel-good novel that offers a comforting escape. While I wanted a little more realism and complexity in both the home renovation and the relationships, readers looking for a cozy romance with a hopeful message and a satisfying happy ending will likely find plenty to enjoy and a welcome respite from the news. Three stars.

Thank you to NetGalley and Dell for providing me with a copy of the book. It will be published on September 1, 2026. There is a Goodreads giveaway for this book if you are interested. 

 

This book was just not meant for me in so many ways.

I went into Heather hoping that its setting in the New Jersey Pine Barrens would make this mystery especially appealing. Unfortunately, the setting wasn’t enough to overcome the many elements that I tend to struggle with as a reader. There are multiple storylines, a nonlinear timeline, a mixture of second- and third-person narration, a protagonist who often seemed frustratingly incompetent, and a web of relationships so confusing that I found myself trying to construct a family tree just to keep everyone straight.

More troubling for me was the repeated failure of the adults in this community to protect the young women at the center of the story. Police officers, parents, teachers, and other authority figures repeatedly miss or fail to act on things that seem like they should have raised serious red flags. I kept wondering how so many adults could fail these girls so thoroughly and so repeatedly.

I can appreciate what Caitlin Mullen was attempting to explore: how difficult it can be to know the truth about another person's life, how memory and perspective shape our understanding of the past, and how a community can carry the consequences of long-buried secrets. There are some genuinely disturbing and heartbreaking ideas here.

But as a reading experience, I found Heather confusing rather than compelling. The structural choices that may work beautifully for other readers mostly kept me at a distance from the characters and the mystery. I wanted to enjoy this one, mainly because of the Pine Barrens setting, but unfortunately the setting couldn't make up for the rest of the book for me. Two and a half stars.

I picked up Tough Cases after hearing one of the editors, Gregory Mize, interviewed on NPR, and the book turned out to be even more compelling than I expected.

Most of us encounter famous court cases only through headlines or the final ruling. Tough Cases shifts the focus from the courtroom drama to the judge's chambers, where the real burden of decision-making takes place. Each chapter is written by the judge who presided over a particularly difficult case, explaining not only the legal reasoning but also the human weight of making decisions that can alter lives forever.

I was familiar with several of the high-profile cases, including those involving Elián González, Terri Schiavo, and Scooter Libby, but I had never really considered the painstaking thought process behind the rulings. The essays do an excellent job of explaining how judges balance precedent, statutory law, constitutional principles, and compassion while recognizing that there may be no outcome that satisfies everyone. The writing is remarkably accessible, making complex legal issues understandable without talking down to readers who don't have a legal background.

One of the book's greatest strengths is that it humanizes judges without turning them into heroes or villains. They come across as thoughtful people wrestling with imperfect facts, competing legal obligations, and the knowledge that every decision will profoundly affect someone's life.

Reading this made me realize how much I enjoy this kind of behind-the-scenes legal history. I would eagerly read a similar collection explaining the judicial reasoning behind landmark Supreme Court decisions such as Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission or Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization. Regardless of where readers stand on those cases, understanding how judges work through difficult constitutional questions in plain language would make for fascinating reading.

If you enjoy legal nonfiction, true courtroom stories, or simply want a better understanding of what judges actually do beyond issuing rulings, Tough Cases is an engaging and enlightening collection. It reminded me that the law is rarely as simple as it appears from the outside, and that some of the hardest work in our justice system happens long before a verdict is announced. Four stars. 

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

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/12/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a good start on the newest dish towel.

There is nothing difficult about this pattern, but it just might be the one that staves off dementia for me for another year or two. It's a bunch of seed stitch and I have to really pay attention when I'm working on the purl side so I keep the knits and purls straight.

 

But just to keep things interesting, I started the same pattern in dark purple Cotlin.

 

 

I haven't even gotten to the first row of nested squares yet, but I've been in a purple mood ever since the yarn arrived and hopefully I'll be able to keep my knits and purls straight. 

 

What are you making this Wednesday in August? 

 

Ravelry links:

 

Nested Squares Kitchen Towel 

Read With Us Lounge: 8/10/26

 

Lately, I've noticed something about my reading.

When I finish a book, I don't necessarily want to be devastated. I don't need shocking plot twists, morally bankrupt characters, or another reminder that people can be greedy, corrupt, and dishonest. I can get all of that and more evil by reading the news for about thirty seconds.

Instead, I've found myself gravitating toward books that leave me feeling ... better. Not because they're saccharine or unrealistic, but because they remind me that kindness still exists. That decency matters. That ordinary people can choose compassion and doing the right thing over selfishness.

I'm talking about books with good and honorable characters. Not perfect characters. Those are usually boring. I mean people who make mistakes, struggle, doubt themselves, and sometimes fail, but who keep trying to do the right thing anyway. The kind of characters who make you think, I wish this person lived next door and I wish I knew them in real life.

There's something deeply comforting and even restorative about spending a few hundred pages with people who treat one another with generosity, loyalty, humor, or quiet courage. Their worlds may still contain grief, disappointment, or hardship, but the stories never leave me feeling cynical. Instead, they remind me that goodness hasn't disappeared.

Maybe that's why many of us return again and again to authors like Anne Tyler, James Herriot, or Fredrik Backman. Their books don't pretend life is easy. They simply insist that even difficult lives can be filled with grace, forgiveness, friendship, and small acts of kindness. These stories don't ignore reality; they balance it.

Some books that have given me this feeling include The Shell Seekers, All Creatures Great and Small, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and A Man Called Ove. None of them pretend life is perfect. They all contain loss, disappointment, and hardship. But they also remind me that integrity, kindness, and generosity are still worth celebrating, and sometimes that's exactly the kind of story I need.

Sometimes I think we underestimate the value of hope in literature. We praise books that challenge us or break our hearts, and they certainly have their place. But I also think there's real literary merit in a novel that quietly restores your faith in people. In a world that often feels loud, angry, and exhausting, reading can become more than entertainment. It can be a way of reminding ourselves of the kind of people we want to be and the kind of world we'd like to help create.

So my question this week is a simple one:

What book(s) left you happier than when you started?

Not because everything worked out perfectly. Not because it wrapped everything up with a neat little bow. But because spending time with those characters made you feel just a little more hopeful about humanity. I'd love to add a few more of those books to my ever-growing TBR pile.

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Thank you for your participation in the RWU Lounge. We we weren't exactly sure if our "anti-book bingo" idea would work but you have helped to make it a rousing success with your thoughtful comments and discussion, no matter what the topic was. As a small token of our appreciation, we'd love to send you a thank-you gift. If you're comfortable sharing your mailing address, please send it to me via email (highlyreasonableATgmailDOTcom) and we'll get your parting gift on its way in a bit. Thanks again; we really appreciate your commitment to our "No Rules. Just Fun!" philosophy.

Books on Thursday

I read a couple of books this week. They were both 3.5 stars which normally makes me think "meh", but both of these had some interesting things going on.

I'm glad I took a chance on this one. I don't often choose from the free monthly Amazon First Reads selections because, in my experience, you tend to get what you pay for. This time, though, I decided to give I've Got a New Complaint a try, and it turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

Laurie Notaro's (no relation to Tig) collection of essays captures the strange stage of life where you're juggling aging parents, your own aches and pains, and the realization that you have somehow become the adult in every situation. Her observations are often exaggerated for comedic effect, but they're rooted in experiences that will feel familiar to many readers.

As with most essay collections, some pieces landed better than others. A few had me smiling more than laughing out loud, while others showcased Notaro's wonderfully dry, self-deprecating wit. I especially enjoyed her sharp sense of humor and the way she finds comedy in everything from office politics to getting older and all the indignities that come with it.

The biggest compliment I can give I've Got a New Complaint is that it made me want to read more of Laurie Notaro's work. If her other books have the same blend of wit, honesty, and humor, I'll happily pick up another one. Three and a half stars.

 

I picked up Seek Immediate Shelter after spotting it on President Obama's summer reading list and the premise immediately grabbed me. A false ballistic missile alert sends an entire Massachusetts town into crisis, and for a few terrifying minutes everyone believes they're living their final moments. What follows isn't so much a thriller as a series of interconnected character studies exploring what people reveal about themselves when they think there's no tomorrow.

The novel is structured as a collection of vignettes, with each chapter focusing on a different person affected by the alert. Some stories resonated with me more than others, but together they create an interesting portrait of a community and the complicated relationships that exist beneath everyday life. Vincent Yu does a thoughtful job showing how one brief moment of panic can expose years of buried resentments, regrets, and unspoken feelings.

I found myself imagining what I would do if I received a message like that. One of the characters, Nina, uses what she believes are her last moments to send a cruel text to her daughter. I simply couldn't relate to that reaction. I'd like to think my instinct would be to call or text my own kids to tell them I loved them and hope for the best. That contrast made me reflect on the choices the characters make and what those choices say about them.

While I appreciated the novel's ambition and its exploration of second chances, the vignette format kept me from becoming deeply invested in many of the characters before moving on to the next perspective. A few storylines lingered with me long after I finished, while others felt less fully developed.

Overall, this is a thoughtful and compassionate debut that asks compelling questions about love, regret, forgiveness, and what truly matters when we believe time has run out. It didn't completely win me over emotionally, but it certainly gave me plenty to think about, and I'll be interested to see what Vincent Yu writes next. Three and a half stars, but I think it would be absolutely wonderful to talk about books with Obama!

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

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/5/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a third completed dish towel. Now the stack I envisioned gifting to Ryan is real.

I still haven't washed them but will do that sometime in the near future. They're fairly large, 17' x 27", but I know they'll shrink in the dryer. I just don't know how much yet. 

It's still hot and rainy so I won't be sitting outside stitching a badger anytime soon. Instead I've just cast on for another dish towel, but using a different yarn and pattern. Nested Squares in CotLin is an easy pattern with a nice yarn and should keep me happily knitting dish towels for another month or so. I thought I ordered the yarn in a deep purple, but this Sagebrush doesn't look the least bit purple. I might have to remedy that.    

What are you making this first Wednesday in August? 

Read With Us Lounge: 8/3/26

One of the main ideas behind the Read With Us Lounge has been that reading should bring us more freedom, not more rules.

Many of us carry around an invisible list of "shoulds" when it comes to reading. We should finish every book we start. We should read the classics. We should read books in order. We should read the book before watching the movie. We should always start at page one and never, ever peek at the ending. You don't write in your books and you never dog-ear pages. Audiobooks don't count as "real" reading. 

But where did all those rules come from? And more importantly ... do they actually make us happier readers?

I've known people who read the last chapter first. At first, that sounded completely wrong to me. Wouldn't it spoil the whole book? Then I heard someone explain that knowing the ending allows them to relax and enjoy the journey. Instead of wondering what will happen, they pay attention to how the author gets there. They notice the breadcrumbs, the small moments, the clever turns of phrase that might otherwise be overlooked. I don't personally read that way, but I understand the appeal now.

I'm not about to make more reading rules, but I hereby declare that yes, audiobooks are real reading (for me, anyway.) I think that many audiobooks bring me one step closer to a story, removing the middleman of paper or a screen. 

Whether you're turning pages or listening while driving, walking, knitting, folding laundry, or pulling weeds in the garden, you're still experiencing the author's story. You're meeting the characters, following the plot, laughing, wondering, learning, and sometimes crying. The words are reaching you through your ears instead of your eyes, but they are still the author's words. In fact, stories were spoken long before they were printed. Listening isn't a lesser form of reading; it connects us to one of humanity's oldest traditions.

Once you start questioning one reading rule, it's amazing how many others begin to fall away.

Maybe you like to read several books at once because your mood changes from day to day. Maybe you reread favorite books every few years because they become different books as you become a different reader. Maybe you skip long descriptions, read mysteries only after someone has spoiled the ending, abandon books that aren't working, or spend an entire summer reading nothing but memoirs. None of those habits make you a "bad" reader. They simply make you your kind of reader.

That's one of the reasons we wanted this group to exist. Not to tell us what we should be reading or how we should be reading it, but to remind us that there are countless ways to build a reading life. The goal isn't to read the "right" books or the "right" way. I think it's to keep reading in ways that make us curious, joyful, comforted, challenged, or simply happy to pick up the next book.

So this week, I'm curious...

What's one reading "rule" you've broken? How did it affect your reading life?

Please share your reading quirks. I have a feeling many of us may discover we're not nearly as unusual as we thought.

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

 

Books on Thursday

I read several ARCs this week but will review them closer to their publication date. I did read one other book after hearing about Christopher Nolan's Odyssey almost everywhere I turned.  

I'm not nearly as familiar with The Odyssey as I probably should be, but even with only a basic knowledge of the original, I'm fairly certain I appreciated Margaret Atwood's retelling more than I would Homer's epic.

By allowing Penelope and the twelve hanged maids to tell their own stories, Atwood shifts the focus away from the celebrated hero and toward those who were expected to wait patiently while history glorified someone else's adventures. I couldn't help thinking that if I had been in Penelope's place, Odysseus and I would have had some very serious conversations when he finally deigned to return home after twenty years of wandering, monster-slaying, and "spending time" with various goddesses.

What I admire most about Atwood is her ability to subvert familiar narratives without dismissing them. Her deep knowledge of and respect for the original myth is evident throughout, even as she playfully pokes holes in its assumptions. The novel is witty, clever, and often surprisingly funny, but beneath the humor is a sharp examination of whose voices are preserved, whose are ignored, and how gender and class shape the stories that survive.

The Penelopiad is brief but thought-provoking. It made me want to revisit The Odyssey with fresh eyes, and that's probably one of the highest compliments a retelling can earn. I just wish I was better at pronouncing Margaret Atwood's title. 

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

 

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.