Books on Thursday

I read three books this week. One was a recommendation from Jane; one was a rediscovery and reread after three decades, and one was nonfiction that made me think. 

Street Haunting was my introduction to the writing of Virginia Woolf thanks to Jane, and after finishing this collection of essays, I'm curious to try some of her fiction next.

Woolf's writing style is fascinating, evocative, observant, and packed with vivid details. Even when she's describing something as ordinary as a walk through the streets of London, she notices small moments and textures that most people would overlook. Her essays often feel less like arguments and more like invitations to see the world through her eyes.

As with most essay collections, some pieces resonated with me more than others. A few felt dated or simply didn't capture my interest, but the strongest essays were excellent and made the collection worthwhile. My favorite was "How Should One Read a Book?" In it, Woolf celebrates the freedom and pleasure of reading without rigid rules, a message that still feels fresh and relevant today. 

 

Woolf's writing speaks better for itself than I ever could. While I didn't love every essay equally, I admired her intelligence, her powers of observation, and her ability to transform everyday experiences into something memorable. A rewarding introduction to an author I've long meant to read, and one that has encouraged me to finally pick up some of her novels. Three and a half stars rounded up.  

 

I first read Harvesting the Heart by Jodi Picoult in 1993, shortly after my second son was born. Over the years I remembered it fondly and looked for it several times, although I somehow convinced myself that it had been written by Hilma Wolitzer. I was excited to find it again for a reread.

 

Reading a novel about new motherhood hits very differently when the baby you were caring for the first time around has just turned 33. As a young mother, I identified with Paige's uncertainty, exhaustion, and fierce love for her child. Now, with the perspective that comes from decades of parenting, I found myself noticing different aspects of the story, the strains on a marriage, the lingering effects of family history, and the ways people struggle to understand one another.

This isn't Picoult at her most polished or ambitious, and some of the plot developments feel melodramatic by today's standards. Still, I found the emotional core of the novel convincing. The depiction of early motherhood, in particular, rang true, capturing both its joys and its isolating challenges. Paige's mistakes can be frustrating, but they also feel recognizably human.

While Harvesting the Heart didn't have quite the same impact on me as it did when I first read it more than three decades ago, it remained an entertaining and heartfelt read. Revisiting it offered not only a chance to evaluate the book itself but also a reminder of how much a reader can change over time. Sometimes the most interesting part of a reread is discovering the distance between who you were then and who you are now. Three stars. 

 

I borrowed Comfortable with Uncertainty from the library, hoping for something like an instruction manual, a practical guide that would teach me how to become more comfortable with uncertainty. Instead, what I found was something both simpler and more challenging.

Pema Chödrön's central message seems to be that there are no instructions. There is no formula for eliminating uncertainty, no set of steps that will guarantee peace of mind. Rather, the practice is learning to stop resisting life's inherent unpredictability and to meet whatever arises with openness, curiosity, and compassion.

That may sound frustratingly circular to readers looking for concrete advice, and at times I found myself wishing for more practical guidance. Yet as I continued reading, I began to understand that this longing for certainty and clear answers is exactly what Chödrön is encouraging us to examine. The discomfort we feel when things are unresolved isn't a problem to solve but a reality to face.

As with many collections of teachings and reflections, some sections resonated with me more than others. Chödrön's writing is warm, accessible, and often insightful, but there were passages that felt repetitive. Still, I frequently found myself pausing to reflect on an idea or reread a particularly meaningful passage.

In the end, I didn't come away with a roadmap for becoming comfortable with uncertainty. I came away with the realization that comfort may not be the goal at all. Instead, the book invites us to drop our expectations, stop grasping for certainty, and learn to face whatever comes with an open heart. That's easier said than done, but still an important lesson.Three stars.

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

Books on Thursday

I've been forced to change my comment settings this morning because I was inundated with stupid spam. Currently it's set for users with Google accounts. I'm sorry to do this and don't mean to make things more cumbersome for my valued readers as I do appreciate your comments. I also chose to moderate all comments, so please submit your comments (just once!) and they will be visible after I moderate and publish them. Sorry and thank you!

I read two books this week; both of them are pre-publication copies. 

For about three-quarters of Country People, I was convinced I was reading a five-star novel.

Daniel Mason creates a wonderfully eccentric world populated by characters who are odd without feeling cartoonish, and he balances humor, lyricism, and genuine emotional insight with remarkable ease. Miles is a lovable mess of a protagonist, perpetually distracted, endlessly curious, and forever chasing the next fascinating idea rather than finishing the things already on his plate. His struggles with marriage, parenthood, ambition, and self-worth give the novel a surprisingly sturdy emotional center beneath all its whimsy.

I enjoyed the community of misfits and others that Miles encounters in Vermont. My favorite among them was the character inspired by Snowflake Bentley and his endlessly fascinating "Inventory of Wrong Ideas", a catalog of humanity's mistaken beliefs and discarded certainties. That project felt perfectly suited to a novel so interested in stories, myths, and the strange things people choose to believe.

Unfortunately, the book lost me when it became increasingly invested in the local legend of an underground kingdom. Up to that point, the novel's magic had come from its blend of recognizable human struggles and delightfully quirky characters. As the plot shifted toward unraveling this bizarre legend, the story began to feel less focused and more self-indulgent. What had seemed charmingly eccentric started veering into territory that felt unnecessarily loony.

The ending was the biggest disappointment. After such a rich and engaging build-up, the novel seemed to fizzle out rather than arrive anywhere meaningful. The two epilogues only reinforced that feeling for me, extending a conclusion that was already struggling to land and drawing attention away from the characters and relationships I had become invested in.

Even so, there's an enormous amount to admire here. Mason is a gifted writer, and many passages are genuinely beautiful. The novel is packed with intelligence, warmth, humor, and affection for human oddity. I just wish it had trusted the strengths that made the first part of the book so wonderful instead of disappearing down its own metaphorical rabbit hole. This fascinating, frequently delightful novel was 3.5 stars overall for me, rounded up because the story was exceptional in the beginning. 

Thank you to NetGalley and Random House for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on July 7, 2026.  

Ann Cleeves continues to prove why she is one of the most reliable voices in contemporary crime fiction with The Dying Light, a strong fourth installment in the Matthew Venn series. Set against a sweltering Devon heatwave, the novel combines a compelling mystery with the author's trademark exploration of family dynamics, community tensions, and the secrets people keep hidden behind carefully constructed facades.

The plot begins with the death of a young woman found in a swimming pool and the disappearance of her best friend, but what initially appears straightforward quickly grows more complex. Cleeves expertly peels back layer after layer of deception, drawing connections between local residents, holidaymakers, politics, social media, and long-buried grievances. The oppressive summer heat and the claustrophobic atmosphere of a small community under scrutiny create a palpable sense of tension throughout.

What continues to elevate this series for me, however, is Matthew Venn himself. In this novel, he feels increasingly confident and mature in his role as a detective. He has grown into his leadership position, trusting his team while still displaying the empathy and thoughtful observation that make him such an effective investigator. Rather than relying on dramatic breakthroughs, Venn solves cases by listening carefully and noticing what others overlook.

I also appreciated the continued development of his personal life. His relationship with his husband, Jonathan, remains one of the series' strengths. Their marriage feels authentic and lived-in, providing warmth and stability amid the darkness of the investigation. Cleeves portrays their partnership with a quiet tenderness and respect that adds emotional depth without overwhelming the mystery.

Equally compelling is Matthew's still-fractured relationship with his mother. The wounds left by his upbringing in the strict religious community that rejected him have not magically healed, and the novel continues to explore the complicated mixture of love, resentment, obligation, and grief that defines their connection. These scenes add a layer of emotional realism that makes Matthew far more than just another detective protagonist.

This book was four stars for me. My only reason for not rating the book higher is that some sections felt a bit slower than necessary, particularly in the middle, as the investigation broadened and the cast of suspects expanded. Still, the payoff is satisfying, and the resolution feels both believable and emotionally resonant.

The Dying Light is a thoughtful, character-driven mystery that balances an intricate plot with genuine emotional insight. Fans of the series will enjoy seeing Matthew Venn continue to grow both professionally and personally, while newcomers will find a well-crafted crime novel that stands comfortably on its own. I am anxiously looking forward to the next book in the series. Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin' Press for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 29, 2026. 

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

Books on Thursday

I finished two books this week, and they were both a little outside of my usual reading. Sarah recommended this first one, and since I seem to be on a memoir streak, I gave it a try. 

In How to Lose Your Mother, Molly Jong-Fast writes with a voice that is unmistakably her own, sharp, self-aware, anxious, funny, exhausting, and often brutally candid all at once. The memoir moves quickly between humor, resentment, grief, celebrity gossip, family history, and the slow devastation of Erica Jong’s dementia. At times the tone feels almost frenetic, but that energy also feels true to the life she’s describing. Even when I wasn’t fully invested, I was rarely bored.

One of the most compelling aspects of the book is its complicated portrait of motherhood and daughterhood. Jong-Fast clearly spent much of her life longing for stability and attention from a mother who was consumed by fame, relationships, ambition, her own needs, and addiction to alcohol. The title itself captures the emotional core of the memoir: how do you mourn a mother you never really had in the first place? Some passages about caregiving, aging, and anticipatory grief were genuinely moving.

I listened to the audiobook, which added another interesting layer to the experience. Molly Jong-Fast has a very distinctive narration style and voice. At first I found it a little jarring , clipped, intense, almost breathless at times and strident at others , but as the memoir went on it started to feel perfectly matched to the story she was telling and the emotional chaos underneath it.

In the end, I think readers who enjoy messy family memoirs, literary gossip, and emotionally complicated mother-daughter stories will probably get the most out of this one. I didn’t love every moment, but I appreciated its honesty and refusal to sentimentalize difficult relationships. This is a story about a little girl who didn't get what she needed from her mother while she was growing up, and that's a sad story no matter the circumstances. Three and a half stars.

Sally Hepworth has built a reputation for writing domestic suspense with sharp humor and memorable characters, and Mad Mabel leans heavily into both strengths. Part mystery, part character study, and part dark comedy, this novel follows eighty-one-year-old Elsie Mabel Fitzpatrick, a woman whose prickly exterior hides a lifetime of secrets, and possibly a trail of bodies.

The strongest aspect of the book is undoubtedly Mabel herself. She's nosy, opinionated, unapologetically difficult, and far more complex than she initially appears. Hepworth does an excellent job balancing Mabel's sharp edges with enough vulnerability to make readers invested in her story. The friendship that develops between Mabel and her young neighbor Persephone is also unexpectedly charming and provides much of the novel's heart.

The dual timelines gradually reveal Mabel's past, and while the mystery kept me turning pages, some of the twists felt more entertaining than surprising. The pacing occasionally lagged a bit in the middle. The novel's blend of humor and darker subject matter is mostly successful, though at times the tonal shifts felt a little uneven.

What ultimately makes Mad Mabel work is its exploration of justice, redemption, and the assumptions we make about people based on age and appearance. It's a clever premise that asks readers to reconsider who gets labeled "dangerous" and who gets overlooked. It is an engaging, quirky mystery with a memorable protagonist and enough twists to keep suspense fans satisfied. Three and a half stars rounded up.   

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

Books on Thursday

I read three books this week, two ARCs and one already published book. A couple of them were just average, but I've read a lot of stellar books lately and they can't all be five stars. 

The Left and the Lucky was something I checked out on the spur of the moment. It is filled with empathy and bruised humanity, and at its best, the novel offers a moving portrait of connection between damaged people trying to survive difficult lives. Eddie, the lonely house painter carrying decades of guilt, and young Russell, desperate for safety and kindness, form the emotional core of the story, and their growing bond is genuinely tender. Vlautin writes beautifully about small mercies: a shared meal, a little work to do, a quiet place to sit, someone finally paying attention. Those moments feel earned and deeply human.

But for me, the novel’s relentless bleakness eventually became overwhelming. There is more than enough sibling abuse, substance abuse, neglect, poverty, violence, and child abandonment to go around, and while Vlautin clearly approaches his characters with compassion rather than judgment, the accumulation of misery sometimes overwhelmed the story entirely. Curtis, Russell's brother, is portrayed with such frightening volatility that many scenes become difficult to read, and the constant sense of danger hanging over Russell made the reading experience emotionally exhausting.

That makes the kindness Eddie offers all the more meaningful, but it also means those quieter moments can feel buried beneath wave after wave of suffering. I appreciated what Vlautin was trying to do ,show how even fragile acts of care can alter a life, and there are passages here that are heartbreakingly lovely. Still, I found myself wishing for a little more balance and breathing room amid the despair.

Readers who appreciate stark, working-class literary fiction with deeply compassionate characters will likely find much to admire here. While I respected the novel more than I enjoyed it, Eddie and Russell’s relationship lingered with me even after I finished the final page. This was three stars for me. 

Barry Werth’s The Age of Cures is an ambitious history of the rise of the American pharmaceutical industry, tracing the scientific breakthroughs that transformed medicine between the 1930s and 1960s. Werth clearly did an enormous amount of research, and the book is packed with details about the development of antibiotics, vaccines, cortisone, and the partnerships between universities, government, and private industry that reshaped modern healthcare.

What worked best for me was the sense of scale. Werth captures how terrifying illness once was before the arrival of so-called “miracle drugs,” and he effectively shows how quickly medicine evolved within just a few decades. Some sections, particularly those dealing with the race to develop penicillin and the polio vaccine, were genuinely compelling and gave me a new appreciation for the scientists and institutions involved.

That said, I found the book uneven as a reading experience. The level of detail can become overwhelming, and the narrative sometimes gets bogged down in long explanations of corporate structures, research funding, and scientific politics. While those elements are obviously important to the story Werth is telling, they occasionally overwhelm the book. I also struggled to connect emotionally with most of the people involved because the cast of researchers, executives, and institutions is so large.

Overall, this is a thoughtful and deeply researched work of medical history that will probably appeal most to readers with a strong interest in science, medicine, or the pharmaceutical industry. I admired it more than I loved it, but I still came away with a greater understanding of how modern medicine and America’s pharmaceutical dominance came to be. Three stars from me.

Thank you to Edelweiss and Simon & Schuster for providing me with a copy of the book. It will be published on September 22, 2026.

Mary Beth Keane’s Whale Harbor is a sprawling family novel that feels both intimate and epic at the same time. Inspired by Keane’s own family history, the story follows eleven brothers whose lives diverge after tragedy fractures their family in Ireland. Some remain behind while others emigrate to Montana and New York, building new lives marked by hardship, loyalty, silence, and longing. At the center of it all is the mystery of a missing brother, Rian, whose absence echoes through generations.

What impressed me most was Keane’s ability to make such a large cast feel emotionally distinct and fully human. Multi-generational novels can sometimes become overwhelming, but here each brother and branch of the family carries its own emotional weight. The novel explores immigration, identity, masculinity, grief, and family obligation without ever feeling heavy-handed. Keane writes with tremendous compassion for her characters, even when they make frustrating or heartbreaking choices.

The emotional texture of the book is what lingered with me most. There’s a quiet sadness running beneath much of the story, but also resilience and tenderness. Keane captures the complicated ways families carry both love and damage across decades. The sections set in New York and Montana were especially vivid, and the immigrant experience felt grounded in the daily realities of work, survival, and reinvention rather than romanticized nostalgia.

I also appreciated the pacing and structure. Despite covering so many years and perspectives, the novel never felt rushed. Keane allows relationships and tensions to develop naturally, and the central mystery of Rian's estrangment gives the story an emotional pull that keeps unfolding right up to the end.

My only slight hesitation is that a few characters inevitably receive less depth simply because the scope is so ambitious. There were moments when I wanted to stay longer with certain family members before the narrative moved on. But honestly, that feeling also speaks to how invested I became in their lives.

Overall, this was a beautifully written and deeply absorbing family saga, rich with history, heartbreak, and humanity. Fans of literary fiction centered on family dynamics and immigration stories will find a lot to love here. I’ll be thinking about these characters for a long time. 4.5 stars rounded up.

Thank you to NetGalley and Scribner for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on November 3, 2026.

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

Books on Thursday

I finished two books this week and both of them were ones that although they were not at the top of my list, still provided me with some interesting reading. 

I had placed a hold on Strangers at one of my libraries, but was pleasantly surprised to find it available at my second library, so I checked it out and started listening. Belle Burden’s memoir is a reasonably well-written and often compelling account about the one-sided collapse of a marriage. The early pandemic setting adds a claustrophobia to the story, and there’s no denying the emotional devastation of having a partner of twenty years abruptly decide he no longer wants the life you built together. Burden writes candidly about grief, confusion, humiliation, and the slow process of reclaiming herself after betrayal.

At the same time, this memoir is filled with red flags that made it difficult for me to completely lose myself in the narrative. The biggest one was Burden handing over complete financial control to her husband. I simply could not understand that choice at all, regardless of how much wealth and privilege she may have come from. Burden writes openly about how she chose not to know, and the book becomes a cautionary tale about dependence and the dangers of surrendering autonomy within a marriage.

Burden is honest about being raised in a wealthy socialite world, and while she can’t help the circumstances of her birth, I do think that wealth cushioned many of the practical and emotional circumstances of the divorce. There’s still real pain here, of course, but it’s impossible not to notice the safety nets available to her that many women would never have.

What stayed with me most, though, were the children. The unraveling of the marriage is sad, but the most heartbreaking aspect is the portrait of a father who seems anxious to walk away not only from his wife, but from his three children as well. That complete emotional abandonment lingers over the entire memoir. Her children ranged in age from 12-17 at the time their father abruptly discarded them, and they are now 17-22 years of age. I would be interested in reading their accounts of what this has felt like for them now that they are young adults.

Overall, this is an engaging and emotionally raw read, even if I sometimes found myself more frustrated than sympathetic. I’d recommend it to readers who enjoy memoirs about marriage, identity, and reinvention after betrayal. Three and a half stars.

 

 

I also checked out Malibu Rising at the same time. I've only read one other book by Taylor Jenkins Reid (Daisy Jones & the Six) and enjoyed it, so I thought this one might provide some entertainment. Malibu Rising is definitely a summer read: glossy, dramatic, emotionally engaging, and somewhat difficult to put down once the party gets started. While I wouldn’t call this great literature, it absolutely succeeds as a propulsive, entertaining novel for times when you want something lighter that still has enough heart and family drama to keep you turning the pages.

Set over the course of one chaotic night in 1983 Malibu, the novel follows the four famous Riva siblings as they prepare for (and endure) their legendary annual summer party. Reid does a wonderful job capturing the atmosphere of excess, celebrity culture, surfing, music, and sun-soaked California glamour. The setting feels cinematic in the best way, and it’s easy to imagine this story unfolding in slow-motion montages complete with crashing waves and Fleetwood Mac in the background.

What kept me reading most was the complicated relationship between the siblings themselves. Nina, Jay, Hud, and Kit all carry wounds left by their famously absent father, Mick Riva, and the emotional fallout of their childhood gives the story more substance than the flashy party premise might initially suggests. I especially appreciated the sibling loyalty and the ways they tried, imperfectly, to protect one another.

That said, the novel occasionally leans a little too heavily into melodrama, and some of the secondary characters felt underdeveloped or conveniently sketched in. The frequent shifts into Mick’s backstory also slowed the momentum for me at times, even if they helped explain the family dynamics. By the end, some emotional revelations felt more predictable than profound.

Still, Reid undeniably knows how to craft a compulsively readable story. The pacing is sharp, the dialogue is lively, and the “one wild night that changes everything” structure works incredibly well. Even when the book veers toward soap opera territory, it remains entertaining throughout.

Overall, this was an enjoyable, fast-moving novel with memorable family dynamics, plenty of emotional turbulence, and a vivid Malibu backdrop. Not necessarily a deeply literary experience, but definitely a satisfying read when you’re in the mood for something immersive and fun. Three and a half stars. 

 

Now it's your turn to tell me what you're reading! 

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 5/13/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with the Dream Hitchhiker, which is finally nearing completion. It’s been a busy week, so I haven’t had much time to knit, but I’ve finished all the teeth and completed one row of yarnovers. I’m experimenting with another row or two to see how I like the look. If I’m happy with them, I’ll cast off, block it, and tuck it away until fall. If not, it should be easy enough to rip back the yarnovers. Either way, I expect and hope to be finished by next week.

After that, it’ll be time to focus on the duplicate stitching for Justin’s hat. I may also need to think about casting on another project so I have something to actually knit, though at the moment I have no idea what that might be.

I did finish a book this week and it was a good one. The Book of Birds is nothing short of a marvel, part field guide, part poem, part work of art, and wholly a celebration of the fragile, astonishing lives that share our skies.

Robert Macfarlane’s words are wonderful, lyrical, precise, and full of reverence for the natural world. He doesn’t simply describe birds; he invites us into relationship with them, asking not just what they are, but who they are. Each entry feels alive with movement, sound, and story, expanding beyond observation into something more intimate and essential.

But the real magic happens when Jackie Morris’ illustrations join those words on the page. Her artwork is breathtaking, delicate yet vivid, grounded in close attention but infused with a kind of quiet enchantment. Together, text and image create an experience that feels almost sacred, as though you are being asked to slow down, look closer, and remember what wonder feels like.

As a reader in the U.S., I haven’t encountered many of these particular species in real life, but that didn’t diminish the experience, in fact, it deepened it. I welcomed the chance to learn about birds beyond my immediate landscape, to see the shared threads of fragility, resilience, and beauty that connect them all. The book subtly reminds us that conservation is not local, it’s global, and it begins with attention and care.

I was lucky enough to read an ARC, but this is absolutely a book I will be buying and returning to again and again. It’s not just something to read once; it’s something to pore over, to revisit, to treasure. A future classic, and a powerful reminder that we will not save what we do not love.

Thank you to Edelweiss and W.W. Norton & Co. for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on June 9, 2026. 

What are you making and reading on this Wednesday in mid-May? 

Unraveled Wednesday: 5/6/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a slow start on some duplicate stitch animals and a close to completed Dream Hitchhiker.

I started the duplicate stitching with the deer and it went fairly well. I did discover that despite making a list and checking it twice, I had not ordered the black (or asphalt heather as Knitpicks calls it) used for eyes, nose, and outlining the ears. It should get here sometime this week, so then I'll use it to stitch the deer details.  

I started stitching the raccoon but it turned out I was mistakenly reading the badger chart. What you see above is me removing the badger stitches, being really careful not to clip any brown hat stitches. 

I accomplished that successfully and what you see above is the result of me  checking and rechecking multiple times and doing the first three stitches for the raccoon. I've stopped here, and will recheck several more times before I stitch any more on the raccoon.

But I've been using the time that I'm not duplicate stitching to knit on the Dream Hitchhiker. We've had quite a few cool days, so I welcome the warmth of it on my lap. It looks much the same, just a lot more teeth. I've got 54 teeth which is probably plenty. I've been debating how I want to finish it - bind off after the yo row, do a couple more plain garter stitch rows, or maybe even do those plain garter stitch rows in another color. I've got some of the same yarn in a light gray, but I can't decide if that would look weird or not. If you have any thoughts about the finish, I'd love to hear them. 

I'm reading an ARC, rereading Good People, and relistening to The Things We Never Say but haven't finished anything, so no book reviews this week.   

What are you making and reading this first Wednesday in May? 

Unraveled Wednesday: 4/29/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a completed hat for Justin. Now all that remains is the duplicate stitching of five animals. That should go quickly! ;-)

I was pleased that I was able to find all of my original notes from when I first knit this hat 13 years ago. It helped me with the counting and determination of where I should start with the duplicate stitching. Now all I need to do is thread my needle with "Doe" (the color at the bottom of the deer, which is actually a buck) and get going. I counted and marked the hat several times yesterday afternoon and once again last night, but just couldn't bring myself to start at night when my eyes were tired. I think this duplicate stitching might need to be done in morning light. But a journey of a bunch of duplicate stitches begins with a single one, which will likely be done a little later this morning. 

I finished two books this week. Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden is the kind of novel that feels intentionally gentle and almost parable-like in its structure and message. Centered on a mysterious stranger who quietly reshapes a small Southern town through acts of thoughtful generosity, the book leans heavily into themes of connection, creativity, and what it means to truly “see” another person.

What works best here is the episodic nature of the storytelling. As Theo returns the pencil portraits to their subjects, each interaction opens a small window into the lives of Golden’s residents. These vignettes are often touching and occasionally profound, capturing moments of regret, reconciliation, or quiet transformation. Allen Levi writes with a clear affection for humanity, and there’s an earnestness to the prose that will resonate with readers who enjoy reflective, heart-forward fiction.

That said, the novel’s strengths are also where it can feel a bit limited. The characters, while likable, sometimes come across more as vessels for ideas than fully fleshed-out people. Theo himself remains intentionally enigmatic, but the lack of deeper complexity left me wanting more substance beneath the symbolism. Additionally, the pacing can feel slow, especially if you’re looking for a more traditional narrative arc or rising tension.

Still, there’s something undeniably soothing about the book’s worldview. It asks readers to consider the quiet impact of kindness and the ways art and attention can restore dignity and connection. Even when it veers toward sentimentality, it does so with sincerity. Given the state of the world now, I can understand how so many readers feel comforted by books like this.

Overall, Theo of Golden is a thoughtful, quietly uplifting read, best suited for those who appreciate contemplative storytelling over plot-driven momentum. This was three and a half stars for me. 

 

A World Appears by Michael Pollan is an ambitious, wide-ranging exploration of one of the slipperiest subjects imaginable: consciousness itself. In true Pollan fashion, the book blends science, philosophy, personal reflection, and cultural inquiry into a narrative that is both accessible and intellectually curious. Only Michael could write a whole book about consciousness and end with this quote, "Because consciousness is the only means we have of knowing anything we can’t step outside it and take up a god-like perspective from which to render a final judgement. So where does that leave us? Exactly where we already were, wandering in the exitless labyrinth of consciousness."  

 

But Pollan excels at being a guide through this complex terrain. He translates dense neuroscientific debates and philosophical arguments into language that feels inviting rather than intimidating, and his curiosity is contagious. The sections that delve into competing theories of consciousness, particularly those that challenge strictly materialist views, are some of the most engaging. He also brings in unexpected perspectives, from plant intelligence to artificial intelligence, which keeps the scope feeling expansive.

At the same time, the book’s “panoptic” approach is both its strength and its limitation. Because Pollan casts such a wide net, some areas feel more like introductions than deep dives. Readers hoping for a more rigorous or conclusive argument may find themselves wanting more details. Pollan often seems more interested in opening questions than resolving them, but that's an approach I appreciated. I'm not sure that many questions can be resolved when writing about consciousness, but the author keeps readers interested by raising more questions.

Where the book truly shines is in its more reflective moments. Pollan’s ability to connect abstract ideas about consciousness to everyday human experience, what it means to feel, perceive, and exist, gives the book an emotional resonance that elevates it beyond a purely academic survey. His writing reminds you that this isn’t just a scientific puzzle; it’s the very texture of being alive.

Overall, A World Appears is a thought-provoking and engaging read that invites curiosity rather than closure, and Pollan's curiosity is almost always contagious. He may not provide definitive answers, but succeeds in making the mystery of consciousness feel richer, stranger, and more worth contemplating. A strong four-star read for anyone interested in the intersection of science, philosophy, and what it means to be human. This was four stars for me.

My apologies for my overly wordy book reviews. I'm going to have to work on writing shorter ones. What are you making and reading this final Wednesday in April?  

Unraveled Wednesday: 4/22/26

I don't think there is an official Unraveled Wednesday linkup while Kat is taking a break, but Wednesdays are my favorite blogging day, especially if I haven't had to do any any actual unraveling. I'm enjoying our cooler and more seasonable weather and have been knitting almost monogamously on Justin's hat.

I'd love to finish the hat soon(ish) and get started on duplicate stitching the animals while I'm feeling motivated. I only have a couple more rows until I start the decreases so the end isn't too far away.

I finished one book this week, and it was a good one. Thanks for the recommendation, Vera! Sex of the Midwest completely won me over in a way I didn’t quite expect. Going in, I was intrigued by the premise, a mysterious town-wide sex survey arriving in inboxes, but what unfolds is something much richer and more nuanced than that hook suggests. This is very much a novel-in-stories, following a wide cast of residents in Lanier, Indiana, each chapter offering a glimpse into a different life, a different struggle, a different quiet longing. The connections between characters are subtle but satisfying, creating a layered portrait of a community that feels hopefully authentic and deeply human.

It’s been compared to Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, one of my all-time favorite books, and I’ll admit I was a little skeptical. That’s a high bar for me, but I was pleasantly surprised by how well this measured up. Like Strout’s work, Sex of the Midwest captures the small, often unspoken moments that define people’s lives, and it does so with empathy and insight rather than judgment.

One of the book’s greatest strengths is how attached I became to these characters. Nearly every story left me wishing for just a little more time with them. I was genuinely sad to see each chapter end, and by the final pages, I realized I’ll miss many of these people, like the man waiting for his lung transplant after having covid, the aspiring writer behind the bar, the quietly simmering bureaucrat, and so many others.

It’s also worth noting that the title is a bit of a misnomer. Despite the provocative setup, this book has surprisingly little to do with sex itself (aside from one particularly enthusiastic survey respondent). Instead, it’s about connection, isolation, identity, and the strange ways people try to understand themselves and each other, especially in a post-pandemic world.

Thoughtful, quietly funny, and deeply compassionate, Sex of the Midwest is a beautifully constructed mosaic of small-town life. If you enjoy interconnected stories and character-driven fiction, this is absolutely worth your time. Four and a half stars rounded up because I may read it again in a short while; it ended way too soon.

What are you making and reading on this penultimate April Wednesday?

 

Three (Book reviews) on Thursday

I read three books this week, so I decided to post all the reviews together today. Edited to add: It turns out that I actually finished four but didn't want to ruin the alliteration of Three on Thursday. 

The first is one that Sarah read last week, and I read the second one in an attempt to try and make more sense of the first. Abigail Thomas’s What Comes Next and How to Like It is a quiet, contemplative memoir that reads less like a traditional narrative and more like a collection of fleeting thoughts, small, intimate moments stitched together in a non-linear, almost stream-of-consciousness style. Comprised of short vignettes, the book moves through grief, friendship, aging, creativity, and the strange, often unanswerable question of how to keep going when life keeps taking.

Thomas’s prose is undeniably sharp and direct. There’s a spareness to her writing that I appreciated; she wastes no words, and many passages carry a kind of understated honesty. Her reflections on long-term friendship offer glimpses of something deep and sustaining, even when the rest of life feels uncertain or diminished.

That said, the fragmented structure, while stylistically interesting, made it difficult to fully engage. The vignettes often felt more like impressions than explorations, and I found myself wanting more depth and more cohesion. While there are moments of insight, they felt fleeting, and I struggled to come away feeling truly enlightened, moved, or even particularly educated, which are qualities I tend to look for in a memoir.

Ultimately, this is a book that seems more about sitting with life as it is rather than drawing meaning from it. For some readers, that may be enough. For me, it felt a bit too slight to leave a lasting impression.

I came to A Three Dog Life after reading What Comes Next and How to Like It, mostly hoping to better understand the events that shaped Abigail Thomas’s later reflections. In that sense, this book provided some helpful context. It fills in the emotional and practical realities behind the fragments of her more recent work.

This memoir centers on the aftermath of her husband’s traumatic brain injury, and the life Thomas builds in response to that devastating shift. While her signature style is still present, with brief sections and a somewhat impressionistic structure, it felt more cohesive here. Her emotions are written more clearly, and I was better able to follow the arc of her experience, from shock and guilt to a kind of fragile stability.

Thomas’s prose remains spare and direct, which works well for the subject matter. There are moments of genuine insight, particularly in how she grapples with what it means to remain connected to someone who is, in many ways, no longer the person you knew. I also appreciated that I did learn something from this memoir, about care giving, adaptation, and the ways people continue living after unimaginable disruption. That’s something I tend to look for in memoir, and this book delivered more of it than her later one.

Dogs, as the title suggests, play a central role here, not just as companions, but as emotional anchors. Thomas’s deep affection for them is evident, and they help shape the quieter, rebuilt life she describes. It’s striking, too, that despite everything, she manages to carve out a decent, even meaningful life.

Still, while I admired much of what this book was doing, it didn’t fully land for me on an emotional level. The distance created by the fragmented style sometimes kept me from feeling as immersed as I wanted to be. I gave it 3.5 stars, but couldn’t quite round up.

Maxim Loskutoff’s Old King is a quiet, unsettling novel that lingers in the spaces between men, between ideologies, and between the myth of the American frontier and its unraveling. Set against the rugged backdrop of Lincoln, Montana, the story follows Duane Oshun as he runs away from a divorce in Salt Lake City and stumbles into a logging community and the orbit of a reclusive neighbor, Ted Kaczynski, along with some other reclusive and stubborn men. There are few women in this book, and they are definitely secondary characters.

I’ve always had some degree of interest in Kaczynski, with my own connection to Lincoln through having a cabin there. That familiarity made this novel feel quite grounded. Loskutoff captures the place with an authenticity that’s hard to fake, the rhythms of the town, the isolation, the quiet tensions simmering beneath everyday interactions. Lincoln is more than just a setting; it’s a force that shapes these men and their choices.

What makes Old King particularly compelling is that it isn’t really about Kaczynski, at least not in the way one might expect. Instead, it’s about the intersection of several lives of along Stemple Pass Road, men who circle one another, sometimes barely aware of the impact they’re having. Their connections are loose, almost accidental, yet deeply consequential. Loskutoff explores how proximity alone can bind people together, for better or (more often) worse.

The author's portrayal of Kaczynski is especially fascinating, neither sensationalized nor excused, but rendered as one thread in a larger tapestry of disillusionment, masculinity, and environmental grief. The “Old King” itself, the ancient Douglas fir, stands as a powerful symbol of what’s being lost, and of the competing values that drive these men toward conflict.

This is not an easy or uplifting read. There’s a quiet inevitability to the tragedy that unfolds, and it’s striking how none of these men emerge unscathed. Their lives, shaped by isolation, stubbornness, and a kind of muted longing, seem destined to collide in ways that can only end badly. Still, Old King is a deeply rewarding novel, thoughtful, atmospheric, and sharply observant. It asks difficult questions about progress, connection, and the stories we tell ourselves about independence. Three and a half stars rounded up. 

Yesteryear is an ambitious, unsettling debut that’s at its best when it leans into its sharp social critique, even if it occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own ideas. 

The premise was irresistible to me: a carefully curated “tradwife” influencer suddenly forced to live the actual reality of early 19th-century life. Burke wastes no time stripping away Natalie’s glossy, performative existence and replacing it with something brutal, filthy, and deeply disorienting. The contrast between the Instagram fantasy and the physical toll of survival is vividly rendered, and often genuinely disturbing. There’s a visceral quality to these sections that kept me turning pages.

What worked well for me was how pointed the novel is about performance, of femininity, of faith, and of morality. Natalie’s confidence in her own superiority, built on a curated life and a rigid belief system, feels uncomfortably real. I actually know a woman very much like this; she professes to be deeply religious, but she has also openly expressed that her faith makes her better than others. That familiarity made Natalie less of a caricature and more of a recognizable and unsettling type. Burke clearly understands the psychology she’s writing about, and that lends the book a sharp, sometimes biting authenticity.

That said, the novel doesn’t always balance its themes as smoothly as it could. At times, the satire feels heavy-handed, and the story’s central mystery, what exactly is happening to Natalie, loses momentum as the book toggles between possibilities. I found myself much more invested in the idea of the story than in its eventual direction. I'll admit that I childishly wanted Natalie to get her comeuppance, but I'm not sure that happened. Parts felt rushed, particularly given how extreme Natalie’s transformation is meant to be.

Still, Yesteryear is a thought-provoking read, especially for anyone interested in the intersection of social media, gender roles, patriarchy, and belief. It’s sometimes uncomfortable and unafraid to ask questions, but sadly, it doesn't explore those questions in any depth.

 

Some different reading for me this week, but that's what keeps things interesting. What are you reading? 

 

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 4/15/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with the Hitchhiker still in progress, and I've finally received all of the colors of Palette from Knitpicks that I need to knit and duplicate stitch Justin's hat. 

We're on our second day of unseasonably warm temperatures in the 90s. This is supposed to last until Friday and then we'll return to more seasonable temps next week. To be honest, the Hitchhiker looks much the same as last week so I'm not even going to stretch it out, but I have added another skein. I knit on it a lot yesterday, but my hands get sweaty so I may be forced to set it aside temporarily until next week. That's okay, I have quite a bit to knit on Justin's hat and then the duplicate stitching will probably take even longer. That pile o' Palette is a good reminder that I should get going!

I read three books this week and seemed to write wordy reviews, so I'll post them all together tomorrow.  

What are you making this Tax Day in April? 

Unraveled Wednesday: 4/8/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today, with a bit of unraveling due to my own carelessness, but I'm back on track now.  

I have been doing six teeth between eyelet rows, but I was happily knitting along when I noticed that I had only done five teeth between the last two eyelet rows. I tried telling myself that nobody would notice while I was wearing it, but I would know. And I knew it would bug me, so I ripped out a bunch, made sure to knit six teeth before I did the eyelet row, and then kept going. I'm just a little bit past where I was last week, but I know I'll be happier in the long run. 

I finished one book this week. Once and Again is one of those books that worked for me in spite of itself, or perhaps more accurately, in spite of my own reading preferences. It leans heavily into two elements I tend to avoid: magical realism and romance. That’s on me for not reading the description closely enough, but I’ll admit I was a bit skeptical. And yet, I was still drawn in.

The novel’s central premise, that each woman in the Novak family can turn back time once, was undeniably compelling. Serle uses this idea to explore the weight of choice, regret, and the quiet, persistent question of “what if.” I found myself especially taken with the way this one-time power shapes not just decisions, but entire outlooks on life. Knowing you only get a single do-over would inevitably make you more cautious, or maybe more reckless, and the book captures that tension well.

The Malibu setting and the layered family dynamics added warmth and texture, even when the plot drifted into more predictable romantic territory. The rekindled first-love storyline didn’t fully win me over, but it was handled with enough sincerity to keep me invested.

I was quite taken with the idea of being able to turn back time once and how that might make you live your life differently. At times, I wanted the novel to dig a little deeper into the emotional and philosophical implications of its premise. The concept is so rich that it occasionally felt underexplored, especially when the narrative leaned more toward romance than introspection.

Still, this was an enjoyable read overall, thoughtful, easy to read, and anchored by an idea that lingers after the final page. Even if it didn’t completely align with my usual tastes, I’m glad I gave it a chance.Three stars from me. 

 

What are you making and reading this chilly April day?

Unraveled Wednesday: 4/1/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a Hitchhiker photo that looks much the same as last week, but if I had remembered to take a photo while it was still light out, you might be able to spy 9 more teeth. 

The temperature got up to 80 degrees for the past two days so it was kind of sweaty and uncomfortable to have the Hitchhiker on my lap. I think today is supposed to be another unseasonably warm day, but hopefully we'll get back to better temperatures so it will be more comfortable to work on this. I can see that I need to finish this before summer really gets going!

I finished two books this week; one was a decent read and one was spectacular. Set in 1977 suburban Rochester, Lake Effect explores a moment of restlessness that ripples through two families, beginning with Nina’s impulsive affair and radiating outward into her daughter Clara’s life for years to come. Sweeney is at her best when she captures the quiet dissatisfaction of adulthood and the way a single choice can fracture a family’s sense of stability. The writing is observant and often wry, especially in its portrayal of marriage, longing, and the stories people tell themselves to justify their actions.

But this is also a book where nearly everyone behaves badly, and not always in ways that feel illuminating. The adults make reckless, self-absorbed choices, but what’s more frustrating is how those patterns echo into the next generation. Clara, as a grown woman, remains stuck in the emotional wake of her mother’s decisions, yet she, too, makes choices that are difficult to sympathize with. Instead of deepening the novel’s themes, this generational mirroring sometimes makes the story feel repetitive rather than revelatory.

The title is a strong and fitting metaphor. A lake effect storm, when cold air sweeps over warmer water and produces sudden, intense snowfall, perfectly captures the emotional climate of the book. Small shifts in temperature lead to outsized, unexpected consequences, and Sweeney seems interested in how quickly lives can be altered by moments of desire or impulsivity. Still, like those storms, the impact here can feel more blustery than transformative.

In the end, Lake Effect has moments of insight and emotional truth, but it didn’t fully cohere for me. It was kind of a fun read for me to see just how badly the characters could behave, but not one that lingered much past the last page for me. This was three stars for me.

I’ll admit it: I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to leave Olive Kitteridge behind. There’s something about Olive, her sharp edges, her loneliness, her unexpected tenderness, that lingers long after the last page. So when I opened The Things We Never Say, I did so with a tiny bit of reluctance, unsure if I was ready to trade her in for Strout's newest character.

But Elizabeth Strout knows exactly what she’s doing.

Artie Dam is, in many ways, the opposite of Olive, gentler, quieter, more inwardly unsettled, but he is every bit as real. He’s a good man, simply trying to live in a world that often feels confusing and off-kilter. Strout captures his inner life with such precision that his questions, about marriage, about how little we truly know even the people we love, and about truth and the things we never say are ones that felt much like questions I've asked myself.

And that’s the magic here: nothing “big” needs to happen for everything to feel enormous. A single revelation ripples outward, forcing Artie (and the reader) to reconsider what a life is made of, what we say, what we don’t, and what it costs to keep certain truths buried.

What sets Strout apart, too, is her ability to write about the current political and cultural climate with honesty and restraint. She doesn’t grandstand or simplify; instead, she lets it seep naturally into her characters’ lives, the way it does in ours, through unease, conversation, silence, sometimes quiet division, and being appalled and horrified daily. It’s one of the few portrayals in fiction that has actually felt true. As always, her prose is deceptively simple, clean, precise, and deeply compassionate. She sees her characters clearly, flaws and all, and loves them anyway. And because she does, we do, too.

There’s a passing reference to Olive Kitteridge that made me inordinately happy, one of those small, perfect moments that reminds you all of Strout’s characters exist in the same emotional universe. It felt like running into an old friend when you least expect it.

By the end, I wasn’t missing Olive anymore (well, not quite as much). Artie Dam had taken his place beside her as another beautifully drawn, fully human character trying to make sense of things that don’t always make sense.

Five stars for a novel that feels both intimate and expansive, and for a writer who continues to illuminate the quiet, complicated truths of being alive.

Thank you to Edelweiss and Random House for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on May 5, 2026. 

What are you making and reading this April Fool's Day?   

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 3/18/26

I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a few more teeth added to the Dream Hitchhiker, and more ribbing on Justin's Hat 2.0. There was a bit of unraveling on Justin's hat, in fact, I ended up ripping it out and casting on again. I'm knitting plenty of ribbing so that the brim can be turned up to provide a double layer, but when I started the ribbing previously I did k2, p1. This meant that when that when the brim was turned up, p2, k1 ribbing would have been showing, and I think it's kind of ugly. I usually switch ribbing halfway through to provide a fold line, but I didn't recognize the problem with the "ugly ribbing" until I was well past the fold line. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter for two rounds, but I finally listened to my inner knitting voice, ripped it out and cast on again.

It mattered to me even if nobody else would have paid attention, but now it's fixed and I'm moving on to the stockinette part of the hat. Below is how it will look with the brim turned up and only "good" K2P1 ribbing showing.

 

 

But I also had a short knitting diversion. I have a friend who has had her second knee replacement and we were e-mailing about the "F*** 2020" dishcloth I knit for her during the pandemic. I decided she needed something updated, so I knit this: 

 

I'll be visiting her in a few days to deliver the updated dishcloth. If you would like to knit an updated dish/face cloth of your own, there is a free pattern on ravelry.

I haven't finished any books this week, but am reading two ARCs that I hope to finish in the near future. 

What are you making and reading this Wednesday in March?