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. 

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!   

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 7/15/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with (you guessed it) a kitchen towel. Last week I received a (good-natured) demand to knit a little faster. Becky said, "Your third color of yarn is my favorite, so get cracking!" How could I resist a challenge like that?

I tried, Becky, I really did, but I'm afraid I came up short. I still have 30 rows left before I cast off, and I know that if I had tried to stay up late to finish, mistakes would have been made. So all I can do is show my almost-completed second towel, with a promise to cast on with your favorite color very soon. Maybe even this afternoon. I hope to make good progress on it this coming week as it's blazingly hot again, so all I want to do is sit in an air-conditioned room and knit with with cotton yarn. 

 

Since I've only shown you photos of kitchen towels for several weeks, I thought I'd include a bonus picture this week. See that red tub in the background behind the towel? That's water for the deer since it's been so hot. They drink it, but usually at 2:30 am when it's tough to get a picture. But for some reason, a couple of them visited during the day over the weekend. The fawns are cuter, but these guys are impressive in their own antlered ways. 

 

 

What are you making this antepenultimate Wednesday in July? 

Read With Us Lounge: 7/13/26

In keeping with the RWU Lounge motto (No Rules, Just Fun), I'd like to talk about childhood favorites today, not just for children.

Recently, I relistened to Charlotte's Web, narrated by E. B. White himself. If you've never heard it, it's a treasure. His quiet, unhurried voice feels exactly right for the story, gentle, warm, and completely without fuss. I'd forgotten how much emotion he can convey with the simplest sentences.

Then Kat mentioned reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, which reminded me how much I've always loved Kate DiCamillo. Before long, I was looking up some old favorites, Because of Winn-Dixie and The Tale of Despereaux, along with several I'd somehow never gotten around to reading: The Magician's Elephant, The Tiger Rising, The Puppets of Spelhorst, and Lost Evangeline.

As I read interviews with DiCamillo, trying to better understand what it was about her writing that I (and so many others ) are drawn to, I came across a quote that stopped me in my tracks. Speaking to the Orlando Sentinel, she explained that she always tries to leave room for the reader to read between the lines. She said she has tried to emulate E. B. White:

"He's using the same words we're all using. It must be that stripped-away quality, his heart is resting more on each word, and that's what I'm always trying to do."

The moment I read those words, something clicked.

I've often wondered why E. B. White and Kate DiCamillo feel so similar to me, even though they're writing decades apart. This quote explained it perfectly. Neither writer relies on elaborate language or flashy storytelling. Instead, they trust ordinary words to carry extraordinary feelings. They leave space for the reader. They never tell us exactly what to think or feel; they invite us there instead.

Maybe that's one reason so many children's books become lifelong companions. The best ones appeal to both children and adults. They're for anyone willing to approach them with an open heart. They ask big questions about love, loss, friendship, courage, loneliness, hope, and what it means to be kind. We simply hear different answers at different ages. The best children's books explore universal themes with remarkable clarity and without unnecessary cynicism. Rereading them as adults often reveals layers of wisdom and craftsmanship that we were too young to appreciate the first time. That's why I'm rereading some of them now.

So today I'm curious:

• Have you revisited a favorite from childhood recently? Did it hold up? Did it surprise you? Did it horrify you (like I just felt when I reread The Tale of Desperaux)?

• Have you discovered a children's or young adult novel as an adult and wondered where it had been all your life? 

• Or maybe you've found that children's literature is best read by children. I'd love to know what your experience has been. 

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

 

Books on Thursday

I read three books this week and they each provided me with something else to focus on during a week of oppressive and sweltering heat and humidity. 

 

 

Celestial Lights is less a novel about space exploration than it is about the emotional gravity that pulls us back to the people and moments that shape our lives. Although the story follows astronaut Oliver Ines from his birth on the day the Challenger disaster shocked the world to his selection for a groundbreaking mission to Europa, its real focus is memory, family, ambition, and the cost of pursuing extraordinary dreams.

Cecile Pin writes with remarkable elegance. The novel moves fluidly between Ollie's childhood, his naval career, his marriage, fatherhood, and the high-stakes mission that forces him to confront the choices he's made. The shifts in time mirror the way memory works, and while they occasionally left me wishing for a stronger sense of forward momentum, they also create a rich portrait of a life rather than simply a sequence of events.

Readers expecting a fast-paced science fiction adventure may be surprised. The space mission provides the framework, but this is ultimately a quiet, introspective literary novel. The technology and exploration are fascinating, yet they remain secondary to Ollie's inner life and the relationships he struggles to sustain. Pin asks compelling questions about what we owe our families, what we owe ourselves, and whether great achievement inevitably comes with personal sacrifice. The novel's reflective tone and beautiful prose kept me invested until the end. The ending, in particular, lingers long after the final page, inviting readers to consider the fragile balance between reaching for the stars and remaining grounded by the people we love.

Thoughtful, beautifully written, and quietly moving, Celestial Lights is an excellent four-star choice for readers who enjoy literary fiction that happens to take place against the backdrop of space exploration. Thanks for the recommendation, Kat! 

I was never the ideal reader for American Fantasy. I've never taken a cruise nor ever been a fan of boy bands, so I definitely wasn't the target audience for this story.

Emma Straub does captures the nostalgia surrounding the music and celebrity crushes of adolescence. I could (almost) understand why thousands of women would board a themed cruise to relive a happier, simpler time in their lives, even if I couldn't personally relate. The novel explores what happens when middle age collides with teenage dreams, asking whether it's ever too late to reconnect with the person you used to be.

One line that especially stood out to me was, "On board this ship, they were always girls." It neatly sums up the atmosphere of the cruise, where adult responsibilities are temporarily set aside in favor of youthful excitement and fantasy. That may have made for a fun long weekend for the passengers, but I found it less enjoyable to spend an entire novel immersed in that world.  There are thoughtful observations about aging, divorce, friendship, and the ways nostalgia can both comfort and mislead us. Annie is a likable protagonist, and I appreciated her halting journey toward rediscovering herself. Still, I never became invested in the cruise itself or the fantasy surrounding the band, especially because the members of the band didn't really want to be there either. 

Readers who fondly remember the boy-band era and stories fueled by nostalgia will probably find much more to enjoy here than I did, but it was still three stars. For me, it was an entertaining enough read with flashes of Emma Straub's warmth and insight, but one that ultimately left me feeling more like an observer than a participant. Thanks for the recommendation, Carole! 

 

Charlotte's Web was as good (or maybe even better) than it was the first three or four times I read it. Hearing E.B. White himself narrate the audiobook is always comforting, no matter how bad things get. 

 

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

 

 

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 7/8/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with (you guessed it) kitchen towels. Now there are two of them. The blue one is done (but not washed yet).

 I've cast on for the green one and it's in progress. 

I still have quite a ways to go on the green one, but it really is comfortable summer knitting. I may even finish it by next week (and then cast on yet another one). 

 

 

What are you making this Wednesday in July? 

Read With Us Lounge: 7/6/26

 

Welcome back to the Read With us Lounge! Today Kym, Carole, and I are all talking about the same topic: Do you finish every book you begin? Or are you comfortable setting a book aside?

When we were planning the RWU Lounge topics, I thought I knew exactly where I stood with this one. Life is too short, there are too many wonderful books waiting to be read, and if a book isn't working, why not move on?

Then last week happened.

I checked out Land by Maggie O'Farrell, and from the very first pages I was completely under its spell. The novel opens with a father and son, Tomás and Liam respectively, working for the British Ordnance Survey in Ireland, ten or fifteen years after the Great Hunger. They are recording the empty homes and graveyards scarred by the famine. 

I quickly realized that the Great Hunger was so much more than the simple "potato famine" I learned about in school. The history felt richer, sadder, and far more complicated than I had ever understood. I couldn't read fast enough, but then I ran into trouble.

The story shifts into a family saga, and the hardships become relentless. Page after page, there seemed to be no relief, and it felt as if it had been written by a different author. At first I kept telling myself to push through. Surely my patience would be rewarded and it would all come together somehow. 

But then I noticed something. I wasn't looking forward to picking the book up each evening. In fact, I was actively dreading it. That was when I knew it was time to return the library book without finishing it. And I felt terrible.

Part of that was because I admire Maggie O'Farrell so much. I loved Hamnet, and I thoroughly enjoyed The Marriage Portrait. She's an author whose work I genuinely look forward to reading. Her prose is exquisite and evocative, her characters feel completely alive, and she always seems to have something meaningful to say.

So this wasn't a matter of disliking the writing or deciding an author wasn't for me. It was almost the opposite. I respected the book so much that setting it aside felt like giving up on something important. Maybe there was something wrong with me as a reader or I had missed some crucial details.

This experience made me realize that deciding not to finish a book isn't always as simple as I had thought. Sometimes the decision is easy. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes you stop because a book isn't good. Other times you stop because it's too heavy for where you are right now, or because it's asking something of you that you simply can't give. But whatever the reason, I still believe that readers shouldn't feel obligated to finish every book they begin.

But now I understand that choosing to DNF a book can come with a surprising amount of guilt, especially when it's written by an author you deeply admire, and especially when it's a book you were certain you were going to love. So I'm curious.

Have you ever stopped reading a book that you actually thought was excellent? Have you ever returned a book unfinished, not because it was poorly written, but because it simply wasn't the right book for you at that moment? Or do you make a concerted effort to finish almost every book you begin?

I'd love to hear your stories!

Be sure to check in with Kym and Carole to see what they have to say about finishing what you start.  

Books on Thursday

I read two ARCs this week, one was so-so and one was excellent. 

I read Hollow Bones because Jodi Picoult has often been a reliable choice when I’m in the mood for a fast-moving, issue-driven novel. This one certainly has no shortage of big topics: postpartum psychosis, COVID, 9/11, emergency preparedness, natural disasters, child loss, abuse, early maternal loss, and even a May-December romance. Each of those subjects could be compelling on its own, and several could have carried an entire novel.

For me, though, that was also the book’s biggest weakness. As the story unfolded, it began to feel like too many issues were competing for space on the page. Rather than building toward a cohesive emotional core, the narrative kept introducing another major theme, another trauma, another crisis. I found myself wishing the book had narrowed its focus and gone deeper into fewer storylines.

The discussion of postpartum psychosis was important and timely, and I appreciated Picoult bringing attention to a condition that is often misunderstood and misdiagnosed. However, I’m not convinced this was the strongest vehicle for exploring it. Because the novel was juggling so many other plot threads, that aspect of the story didn’t land with the depth and clarity I had hoped for.

That said, this is still very much a typical Jodi Picoult novel: readable, emotionally charged, well-researched, and designed to spark discussion. The pages move quickly, and I can easily imagine many readers becoming invested in Molly’s story and the ethical questions the book raises.

Overall this was three stars for me. Fans of her signature blend of family drama, social issues, and moral dilemmas will most likely enjoy it much more than I did.

Thank you to NetGalley and Ballantine Books for providing me with a copy of the book. It will be published on September 15, 2026. 

Chris Bohjalian has a gift for taking a single catastrophic moment and exploring the shockwaves that ripple outward, and The Amateur is one of his strongest character studies.

The novel opens with an accident so horrifying that it's impossible to look away: eighteen-year-old golf prodigy Mira Winston hits a practice ball through a damaged net, killing a teenage caddy. From there, the story becomes part courtroom drama, part mystery, but mostly an examination of guilt, privilege, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves about the people involved in tragedy.

What impressed me most was Bohjalian's portrayal of Mira. He (as a 63-year-old male) does an excellent job writing an eighteen-year-old female golf prodigy. Mira is not an especially likable character; she's impulsive, selfish at times, and makes some truly questionable decisions but she never felt like a caricature of a spoiled rich girl. Instead, she came across to me as a complicated young woman who has had remarkably poor role models and very little meaningful guidance. That complexity made me care about what happened to her, even when I didn't approve of her choices.

I also appreciated that you don't have to play golf (or even understand the game, as I certainly don't) to become completely immersed in the story. Bohjalian explains just enough without ever bogging the narrative down, and the country club setting becomes its own fascinating world.

Although there's a trial and an intriguing mystery surrounding the damaged practice net, I found myself reading less for the "big reveal" and more because I wanted to know what would become of Mira. These days, surprise endings often feel overhyped, and for me, the emotional journey mattered far more than uncovering every last secret.

The ending and especially the epilogue elevate the novel even further, forcing readers to reconsider who the real villains are. Was it recklessness? Negligence? Privilege? The adults who failed Mira? Or is assigning blame itself more complicated than we'd like it to be? Bohjalian leaves readers with questions rather than easy answers, and I found that far more satisfying.

"You took advantage of my disadvantage." ~ Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

A compelling, nuanced novel about one terrible swing of a golf club and the lives forever altered by it. This was 4.5 stars for me, rounded up. Thank you to Edelweiss and Doubleday for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on August 4, 2026.

 

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